Drowning
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: John goes to war on the home front, literally, with the help of some highly qualified specialists.  Set after "How The Other Half Lives".  John/Sherlock established relationship & slash & the return of Sam.
1. Chapter 1

(October 6th, 2012)

Up.

_Up._

But how, which way?

Instinct won.

Lights. Dazzling off of the surface. A desperate gasp for air. The sky, above. Or below? Clouds filled both surfaces, broken up around him, chopped into pieces by the waves. Chopped into pieces above by the wind.

Lord, it was so cold.

_Move_.

He couldn't, he was bound. At the wrists, skin being sliced open by the twine, by the cuffs. Trying not to fight, because he knew about police handcuffs, but failing. Each motion, each jerk, cut deeper.

No, that wasn't now. That was before.

Before what?

_Move._

He was screaming. Why was no one listening?

A desperate breath. No, not screaming, not anymore. Another breath, raggedly.

_Move!_

He tried. How could one swim, in the sky? The weak sun caught his eyes and he tried to turn his face away, but then sputtered.

Water. He was in the water.

Something about that word…

Whose grey eyes were these, that were unapologetic, but not uncaring?

Whose body was this, that hurt everywhere?

_Face up, on your back_.

Was that his brain, talking to him? Or someone else?

He obeyed. Pain flared. Screaming. No, whimpering. No more energy for screaming. No more capacity for it. That had been before.

Before what? He struggled to remember. Hands, bound. Someone laughing. The sound – memory? – sent terror down his spine. No, no, no, no. Stop. Please. Stop.

It hadn't stopped.

It was stopped now.

_Breathe, you bastard_.

Again, his mind, or someone else?

Clothing rasped against his skin, clinging painfully to welts and bruises, threatening to drag him down into the current.

No, that was not an option.

There was so much sound, in the distance. Sirens. Yelling voices. Barking.

Dogs? Why were there dogs?

_Do it, do it! Shoot him! Do it! I'll be fine!_

Fine? What was that? Was he fine?

_Angle yourself._

Floating would be so much easier. Just floating until the river met the sea, following the currents up the coast, to the Netherlands, to Denmark, to Sweden, wherever they went. Somewhere far. Somewhere colder.

Cold.

He was so cold.

He'd been cold before, too. Why?

His clothing, removed. No heat in the room. What room? His hands, bound. Someone was laughing, low, a dangerous chuckle. Someone else was screaming. The voice, so familiar. But raw.

It had been him.

This was not the same kind of cold.

No terror. That was why.

Should there be?

Grey eyes, calm, collected, steady.

_Do it!_

Do what?

_Angle yourself_. Again. He struggled to obey. Don't fight the current, but don't give into it. On an angle.

_You'll have to swim._

_No, no, I can't. I can't._

_You_ can.

It hurt. So much. Everything. Legs, pelvis, spine, arms, neck. Maybe his head didn't hurt? No, it did. But from something else. Slamming against something. Something hard and cold. Not from the things that had happened before. He couldn't quite remember, as if his mind was keeping information away from him. Not allowing him to have it right now.

"_You're prettier than I remember."_

Panic, now. He thrashed, trying to get away. No, no, no, no. Another desperate gasp. Please. Stop.

Glinting eyes, uncaring, laughter, but not mirth. Pain. Hands clenched into fists. Screaming. A voice, cold, uncaring, mocking. Exactly as it had been seven years before. Trapped, just the same.

_Someone please help me!_

Who was me? Whose body was this?

In the water.

Yes, he was in the water. Not in the room. But he'd always be in that room now. Handcuffs, his own, clinking on the metal. Scoring the paint. Scoring his wrist.

It was darker now. Something was looming, in the near distance. Sounds were receding behind him.

No boats, he realized. Why were there no boats?

Something was closer, too, on his right.

_There, there_, his brain chided him. _That's where you want to go. Go there._

_I don't want to go anywhere._ The currents to the Netherlands, to Denmark, to Sweden. He had lied to himself. Away. That's where he wanted to go.

Not back, never back.

John.

Who was John? The grey eyes? No. Was he John? Possibly. It was familiar. Something about the name. And the water.

Instinct made him move, beneath despair that wanted to hug the current.

No, he can't win. He _cannot_ win. That was the entire point.

He hit something.

He wanted to scream.

The impact jarred every nerve. He was bleeding, he realized suddenly. Small spots of heat against the cold water. Lights reflected above and below. The sky and the water were the same colour. Was he floating? Drowning?

He managed a groan.

His throat was so sore, so raw. Why?

Screaming.

Had he been screaming?

Yes, oh yes. Every blazing red moment, even when he promised himself he wouldn't.

_Not right now!_ His brain screamed at him.

How was it that his mind could still scream but he could not?

"Hey! Hey, hey! Mister!"

There were shapes, like shadows, above him. He tried to focus, but everything blurred. The sun, casting weak shafts of light. The river, lapping up against its walls. Movement.

"Help," he managed. He raised his arms and whimpered again. Pain. White searing trails from his spine to his fingers. He fell back, face wet now. Was it the river? Was he crying? Another desperate breath.

"Hey, hey, mate, hang on!"

To what? His hands closed convulsively on nothing. Just the water.

Voices, talking urgently. Their words were lost, flowing past like the current. But they were close, staying close. He tried to see them, the owners of these voices, but everything was hazy. Was it foggy? Or night? So hard to tell. What time was it? When had he fallen? Where had he been before that?

In the room.

_No_, he told himself. _No, no. Later._

Then he did scream. It tore from his throat, stamping searing pain across his brain.

Someone had him by one arm.

The right arm.

His right wrist, locked in his handcuff. Bound to his left with twine.

"Sorry, sorry, mate! Hold on, we have you!"

_Let me go! Oh, Lord, please stop!_

Dragged up, body scrapping against the wall, still screaming. This was worse. No, not quite worse. But new pain on top of the older, harder, pain. The scream stopped when it became too hard to breathe. He collapsed against something – some_one_. A warmer body, warmer than his own. Arms wrapped under his shoulders, across his chest, pressing against bruises, bite marks.

He retched, and threw up. Someone cursed but didn't let go.

"We got you, mate, we got you."

They sounded so young.

Young. Wasn't he young? How could a body in this much pain be young?

He struggled against the grip, pleading silently. No, please, stop. Don't touch me. His breath came out in sobs, sharp, ragged. Don't touch, please, just don't touch.

"Dude, call an ambulance."

That cut through everything.

"No," he managed, gritting his teeth, shaking his head.

"Mate, we just pulled you out of the river –"

"Phone. Give me your phone." He sucked in another deep breath. Oxygen in the body just meant more pain. Everything hurt. Everywhere.

_Do it, do it! Shoot him! Do it!_

_Make the right decision. Don't be upset. I knew the risks._

"I'll pay you," he managed, voice shaking, each word forced out, blurred but certain. "Quite a lot."

Hesitation. He could feel it, not see it, not hear it. Someone was still holding him, but he could no longer struggle. There was a suspended moment and he forgot what was happening until someone pressed something into his hand. Cool, plastic and metal. Thin and long. A phone.

A reaction so deeply engrained it could now be called instinct made him focus on the tiny phone, all he could see, black and silver, and ring a number. His right arm hurt too much to move, so he used his left hand. It was shaking. He stopped it from doing so as he dialled, gritting his teeth against the effort. His hand started trembling again once he'd hit the call button.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

"_C'est moi_," he said.

A new voice joined the small fray of others that surrounded him, but this one was more distant, removed, almost tinny. He lowered the phone to his chest, resting it against the arm of the person holding him. He was no longer struggling – whoever was holding him was warm, and not hurting. No more than necessary. No more than could be avoided with this broken body that seemed to belong to him.

The smaller voice, so familiar, female, kept him anchored. The room faded into the background. So did the river. He had no idea what she was saying, but she was there. He was safe. Safer, anyway.

Time passed – minutes, hours, days? How to tell? The voices around him kept talking, asking him questions, but he did not answer. They made no sense. What was his name? What _was_ his name? Did he have one? Or several?

Whose blood was that, all over the concrete?

He was bleeding, too, now, he could feel it. Did it matter? How much blood did he have? How much could he lose? It seemed unimportant.

More voices joined the ones around him, the clatter of feet on concrete, the urgency of people running. The voices around him were trying to provide details, but what did they have? A man from the river. Who was he? Was he anyone?

Someone leaned close to him – he could see the shape, the dark hair, the black eyes.

Safe.

A hand closed over his left one, warm, gloved, fingers gentle as they released his grip on the phone. For a moment, he fought it, but the voice was the same, it was the woman from the phone. He relaxed his hand and she took the phone, moving it away.

"_Laissez_," she said softly, her voice smooth, quiet, familiar. "_Ça va, _Sam. We have you. Let go."

Sam.

Right.

He was Sam.

He closed his eyes, and let go.


	2. Chapter 2

(January, 2013)

John went to war.

When he'd gone to Afghanistan, he'd had the benefit of years of military service already, as well as extensive medical training and practice. For every person in combat, there were at least two behind the scenes, and for every doctor, at least two nurses, not to mention medics, orderlies, anaesthesiologists, pharmacists, psychiatrists, administrative personnel, and chaplains. Men and women whose job it was to support his work, to help fight the enemy.

Not the Taliban. Death. Death and pain were the enemies, the ones that he faced daily, resulting, yes, generally from the Taliban, but also often from other factors – sun stroke was a big one, and dehydration, but any other illness, routine accidents, vehicle crashes, falls, so-called friendly fire, or collateral damage, that was the newer term. Anything that could befall a person in their normal life could happen in a war zone as well, on top of the other dangers. Every day, he and the other doctors and all of their support networks fought back against their enemies, dragging young men and women back from their grasp.

It was much easier, when he had a clear idea of what he was fighting.

He'd never been truly alone, not once. He'd yearned for a moment's privacy, true solitude, peace and quiet, for there to be _no one_ around to have to turn to. He hadn't been alone in the operating room, in triage, in combat. Even when he'd been shot. There had been others there, and with him immediately, and from the moment Tricia's hands had closed over his wound until he'd been flown back to England, there had been somewhere there at all times, doctors, nurses, orderlies, administrators, pilots, whatever.

And friends. Always, his friends.

Because that's what friends were for. Not for the good times – of course, that was pleasant and always appreciated, but for when things were so thick it felt like wadding through waist-high mud, no end in sight, no understanding of how to get out. They were for the times when you really needed them. He understood that, and so did they, so it worked. Even from England, he could do that for those who had remained behind, coming home eventually, or who were still stationed there. You didn't have to be right beside someone to be with them every step of the way.

War was hard, yes.

The support made it easier.

He'd thought, returning home, that people in England would be different somehow, that they wouldn't understand this. Most of them did, even if they didn't realize what they were doing. Things were better here, for most people, but death and pain were still enemies, even if this wasn't a combat zone. People still walked hard roads, and others went willingly with them.

_Most_ people understood this.

Beating it into Sherlock's head was another story.

This war, John didn't understand, not yet. He had no plans, because he hadn't even known he was being deployed. The enemy was unexpected, and made no sense to him. No one could tell him its movements, explain its actions, determine its next course. This was frightening; Mycroft Holmes was outside of anything John had experienced before, and he had always kept those thoughts at bay, until now.

Sally Donovan had told him the first day he'd met Sherlock that she thought that Sherlock would eventually be the one they'd be investigating. That solving murders – puzzles – would ultimately become boring to his lightning quick mind, and he'd want to be the one controlling things, laughing as the police scrambled to keep up. John had occasionally wondered if she were right, but not for a long time now. Sherlock Holmes was not James Moriarty, self-diagnosed sociopath or not.

He had never considered applying her caution to Sherlock's brother before.

He was considering it now.

Only Mycroft would have no desire to have the puzzle solved, to have things figured out, to prove how much more intelligent and quick witted he was. John thought perhaps he was starting to grasp how far the man's reach extended, how deep it ran, how much it had wrapped itself around him and Sherlock.

No, he held out against that last part. He would fight those coils with his last breath if he had to. Because he was not getting dragged down, nor would he see Sherlock go either.

They had a life, strange as it was, but it was theirs. For the first time, possibly ever, Sherlock had found someone that made him happy. John had been happy with others before, but had never felt quite this content, quite this much like he was in the right place, making the right decision.

The war wasn't exactly against Mycroft, because this was not a battle he could win, or even conceive of how to approach. Barring him from being near the flat was the best he could do, because he didn't have the kind of resources the elder Holmes had. Nor did he want them. He was not the one issuing the orders to murder children and then brushing it off. John didn't want that kind of power.

He wanted what he already had. How many people could say that?

The war he launched was against Sherlock.

Not directly, not overtly, because it didn't need to be, but John needed to keep Sherlock from reverting to the way he'd been when John had met him. Functioning, certainly, more than keeping himself going, providing a useful service to the police (even though they hated to admit that), getting through life on a daily basis without hurting himself – much – or going mad. It was a good life, for a man like Sherlock, but not a great life.

A great man should have a great life, John thought.

And, contrary to what Mycroft had said, Sherlock had had at least one friend, Mike Stamford, as unlikely as it was, although they didn't see each other too often.

Still, John had always somewhat considered that Mycroft underestimated his younger brother. That he didn't want to see Sherlock being other than how Mycroft perceived him, because it meant that he could keep tabs on Sherlock, and feel superior about it. John knew enough about sibling rivalry to see the spot Sherlock was stuck in. Mycroft had power, real power, and kept Sherlock locked down with it. Sherlock, seven years younger, always needing to prove himself.

Never realizing that, no, he really did not.

Never realizing that he was more than Mycroft was, and that this drove his brother mad. It had taken John ages to understand this as well. Mycroft did what he did for love of power. Sherlock did what he did for the love of doing it.

John supposed that was what made Donovan afraid of what he could become.

But it also made what Sherlock could – and had – become so much better. He could have been Moriarty, easily, with the resources his brother controlled and a cold, hard intellect that disdained those beneath him, while at the same time requiring that they look up to him, acknowledge that intelligence.

Instead, he'd gone the other way. John didn't flatter himself that it was his presence in Sherlock's life that did it, because it _was_ his presence in Sherlock's life that did it. No need for flattery when it was the truth. At least, initially. Sherlock had been presented with someone who ought to bore him, but continued to surprise him, in small ways he hadn't thought possible. And Sherlock had not been able to turn that down.

Sherlock falling in love with John had surprised him. Probably it had surprised both of them, although Sherlock seemed somehow to take it in stride, but John had never known what arguments the man may or may not have had with himself behind those inscrutable grey eyes. It had seemed so natural to John, though, John who had never been interested in men before, and suspected he never would be again, either. As if this was where he was always meant to end up.

It wasn't without its challenges, however. Aside from the obvious challenges like prejudice and ignorance, which was less of a problem in London, but still present, there were challenges between the two of them. Sherlock could be – often was – inconsiderate, blunt, unthinking. John pushed back against these things, made him _try_. Made it a challenge, because that's what Sherlock needed. Made him see, without lecturing, without being overbearing, what John needed in return.

Made it work.

They'd both made it work. One day, sometimes one hour or one minute, at a time. John, figuring out how to be in love with a man. Sherlock, just figuring out how to be in love. Both of them, figuring out what the difference was between being flatmates and friends, and partners. Other than the obvious of course – they hadn't been shagging before becoming partners, but there were practical things. Bank accounts. Taxes. Wills. Power of attorney. Who did what chores. Yes, this was mostly John, but at least Sherlock tried. Breakfast was, by and large, his responsibility to make now. And he ate more, and more regularly, too.

There were other things to figure out, like how to deal with the man now that they were involved. Tricks, things he could use when push came to shove, to get results.

Touch.

It was largely touch.

This surprised John to no small extent, because Sherlock was so detached, so clinical, so not in need of human contact. He went through the world as though it was just in his way, between him and the next puzzle that made his mind buzz, but it was a reaction, a falsehood, a way of insulating himself. When he'd let John in, as far back as that first case, John began to see where the little lies were, where to circumvent them. Everyone told themselves stories about who they were, what they liked, how they approached life. Sherlock was no different, only better at the deception.

For someone so good at reading an entire life's history from the way someone walked, he was remarkably bad at understanding himself.

Touch became John's weapon – no, not weapon, resource. It started that night, after he'd left Mycroft and gone home, a painfully slow cab ride on a frigid night, aware that Tricia was still in the hospital, wondering vaguely if Henry would ever let them see her again. Not that it was Henry's choice – barring John from Tricia would have been a mistake. Would separating twins work? John felt that way sometimes, like she was the sister Harry should have been, but more so. Well, she had saved his life, goading him with that irritating nickname into not dying, then mending his torn and shredded shoulder, one protracted minute at a time. Even before that, they'd been thick as thieves, as if they'd known each other as family in some past and forgotten life and had found each other again, not quite remembering, but almost.

It had been nearly midnight when he'd returned home, shaken and exhausted, wanting to charge up the stairs and into his flat, but without the energy to do so. Instead, he'd trudged up those stairs, grateful in a way for the late hour, since Mrs. Hudson was probably sleeping soundly, without that death-row-in-Florida husband to trouble her. He'd made sure to knock on the door and announce himself, since he'd told Sherlock to keep his gun ready. Barging through the door probably would have gotten him shot for his effort and enthusiasm.

Sherlock was up and waiting for him, curled on the couch, eyes flickering to John when he stepped inside.

This wasn't like the Merkley case and the fall out after that. There was no retreat here, no wandering down some dark path John couldn't see. Sherlock's eyes were blazing, bright grey, anger and betrayal and other emotions John could scarcely name. There was so much there, a life time of stewing resentment, always suppressed because it was, after all, his brother, and how could one really argue against that?

But John could still smell the faint tang of sulphur in the air, from the kitchen. Matches, and burning paper. Sam's card. Tricia held at gun point in her own home, to deliver Sherlock a warning – _from his brother _– and Sam's postcard destroyed, to hide evidence of the fact that he was not dead. John wondered if he could count it as a blessing that Mike Stamford hadn't been involved in the past day somehow.

So he'd gathered Sherlock in his arms after shedding his coat and leaving it uncharacteristically on the floor, fighting the resistance in the form of stiffness that Sherlock offered, kissing him, lips – lower lip still tender from the previous morning – cheeks, eyes, forehead. Resting a hand in his hair on the back of his head, the one thing John could always resort to. It worked less well this time, but it worked. A thumb, tracing Sherlock's prominent cheekbone, smoothing an eyebrow. Leaning their foreheads together, noses almost touching.

John didn't say anything, nothing about the meeting, at least, nothing that could be interpreted by his husband, the consulting detective with an unfortunate habit of being petulant when he was upset, as lecturing. And he'd kept at it. Sherlock didn't want to talk about this, not yet – nor did John, to be honest – but he was damned if he was going to let this set them back. Sam's postcard had been burnt. _That_ was a major step back.

Touch remained his ally. He held Sherlock in bed, not demanding anything, but more than willing to take it when it came, giving into whatever Sherlock wanted. He held him again, later, both of them awake, waiting for the other to fall asleep. They showered together the next morning; this was normal for them, but John washed Sherlock's dark hair slowly, drawing it out to relax him, to keep them in contact longer. Brushed his hands across Sherlock's whenever possible the following day, knowing Sherlock was noting this, but the younger man didn't say anything. Keeping his own body close, especially in places in their flat where it was harder to find space for two grown men.

Stopping him once in the kitchen and wrapping his arms around him, just standing there, until Sherlock began to relax and snaked his own arms around John's waist, tracing idle patterns on his back lower back, making the doctor's spine tingle with desire. But he just held on, keeping the contact as it was, delivering safety, and nothing else.

It wouldn't be enough, he knew, not so soon.

He needed reinforcements. The kind of support he'd had from everyone who worked with a doctor in the army.

John knew precisely what it was like to love someone who was a constant disappointment. He'd had his whole life being Harry's brother to teach him this. And it was love, yes, because she was his sister, although she'd hurt him badly, for years. She was much better now – had relapsed a few times, but this was not unexpected, although difficult to go through, for both of them.

Sherlock loved Mycroft.

There was no escaping it.

That was what John thought was the worst. They were brothers, and that would not change, and Mycroft was older, the idol, the one to try and imitate, to surpass.

Sherlock had deleted the photos of Mycroft talking to the hit woman before surrendering Sandford's hard drive to Lestrade, and had not said a word about his brother's involvement. Nor had John. Not because he hadn't wanted to, but he'd made a choice, he'd married Sherlock, the man was his family. Loyalty to England be damned. Loyalty to his family won out.

John knew full well what it was like to love someone who was a constant disappointment, yes.

What he did not know was what it was like to love someone who terrified you.


	3. Chapter 3

(December 6th & 7th, 2012)

They'd given him a laptop, eventually.

Refusing at first, because he couldn't stay awake long enough for it to matter, nor focus on much when he was awake. Nothing productive anyway.

The room.

It was superimposed on everything – every dream, every waking moment, every breath. Morphine and sedatives were all he ate, but even then, it couldn't keep the room away. Nothing could, not at first. He fought it every single time, yelling at the memories, yelling at the pain, yelling because it was happening again, and again, and again.

They'd restrained him.

Once.

He'd dislocated his right shoulder, again, trying to escape.

Veronique had yelled at them in French, English, Italian, Mandarin, Arabic, everything she could employ.

Sam had thrown up three times after they'd released him, in less than a minute.

Later that day, he had a new team of doctors and nurses. None of the ones who had been involved in restraining him. The head doctor was a woman now. He still shrank from her, as from everyone, everyone except Veronique.

There were two people in the entire world he trusted without question at the moment, and only Veronique was there. The other was in England, inaccessible.

It had taken some time for him to learn where he was. And who he was. Shipped from England to France via Interpol's elaborate network of medical services, under the radar – almost literally – identity kept secret, in a private hospital in Nice. No one knew he was there.

Multiple surgeries for multiple injuries. A dislocated shoulder – twice – thank you to the former team of doctors, that required scar tissue to be removed. No bones broken in his legs, which was frankly a miracle, but broken ribs, severe whiplash, concussions, contusions, internal injuries, plates in his right forearm, a pin in his wrist, a pin in his elbow. Bruises, bite marks that wouldn't fade, that would scar, one on his left shoulder – _"This one is for John. Remember that." _Oh God, when he thought about it, oh God – cuts on his arm, chest, back, thighs. There was nowhere untouched, nowhere Sam Waters could remember as his own, without Moriarty's sting.

It took awhile to understand that he was not Sam Waters anymore. This made no sense. Who was Yves Bessette? No one. Sam Waters had been Sam Waters for seven years. Less time than he'd been Gabriel Mitchell, of course, but that had been when he was a child. Gabriel had not been afraid of anything. Eager to take on the world. Sam had lived seven years in dark apprehension, waiting for Moriarty to re-enter his life.

He still lived in fear.

Yves didn't exist. Not yet. Even if everyone called him that.

He was still Sam, still trapped in that fear, still waiting, every day, still waiting, but also still remembering.

Moriarty's laughter, trailing one finger casually down his spine, as if what were to come next wasn't terrifying, wasn't torture. As if Sam had a choice.

When he coherent enough, he begged for news. The doctors, endless cycles of doctors and psychiatrists and psychologists, didn't want to indulge him. Indulge? He was dying. He was suffocating.

"For the love of God!" he'd finally screamed at Veronique. "What happened on the bridge?"

She had seemed surprised, and he wondered if he'd actually been able to ask her, to string the words together when she was in the room, to do so while awake, not imagine it, not dream in between remembered panic and terror and pain.

"Sherloque shot Moriarty," she'd said simply. She couldn't pronounce his name properly, not in English, but she spoke to Sam in her smoothly accented English, because it was easier. He could not be the Frenchman they'd assigned to him, not yet. It hurt too much to think in anything but his native tongue. Even the doctors, nurses, shrinks, spoke to him in English. Made him more Sam than Yves. "You both fell. He died from the bullet wound to his head. You survived. They disarmed the car with the bomb."

"Sherlock? John?"

"Both fine."

It wasn't the first time he'd cried, but the first in relief. The sobs had wracked him until it hurt, broken and mending ribs protesting, healing shoulder flaring with pain. Veronique hadn't called the nurse for a sedative, though, but had gathered him up and rocked him, as if he were her child, murmuring soothing platitudes in French until he fell asleep, exhausted, in her arms.

They would separate them, he knew, when he improved. When she was not the only person in the entire hospital he could trust, who could touch him without him flinching or yelling. Who could calm him down with a word, or, as a last resort, by holding his hand.

He hated being touched.

That was the worst part. No, the nightmares. No, the waking nightmares. It was so hard to decide. So exhausting.

The laptop may have been a bad idea, but he'd been hungry, so hungry for anything. He was too tired to move, although they forced him out of bed. The first time, he'd collapsed, the pain too much, didn't they understand what had happened to him? No, his legs weren't broken, but everything from the waist down hurt, inside. They'd given him some more painkillers and waited two days, then made him try again. He made it from his bed to the door, then sank down to the floor, dizzy and gasping.

But alive and walking.

The realization had made him laugh, startling the nurse and orderly, making the nurse go for the sedative, but Veronique had stopped her.

It was the first time Sam had even smiled in over a month.

That was after the funeral.

He'd read about it on John Watson's blog. John's blog, which was why he'd been so desperate for a laptop. He had read it as Sam Waters, the Metro police constable, to keep up with whatever was going on in John and Sherlock's life. To keep an eye on things. Looking for any hint of Moriarty, before the man had gotten to him. Now, it was like a lifeline. He couldn't read Sherlock's blog, it was too impersonal, too sporadic for what Sam needed. He craved some consistency, some connection to the past, without having to go back into it. John chronicled cases, but also regular life events, which Sam missed with a sharp and cutting desperation.

But on October twenty-eighth, John's post was only a picture of Sam's own gravestone, covered in flowers, with the caption "RIP, Sam Waters. You will be missed. With love, John."

Sam had thrown the laptop against the wall and had to be sedated.

October twenty-eighth was Gabriel Mitchell's birthday.

He had screamed at Veronique for five straight minutes about that when she'd returned, not even caring that he made no sense. It hadn't been their choice, she'd said, but chosen because it was a Sunday and more people could attend. Interpol had actually fought it, but the London Metro Police had made the final decision. Sam had fantasies about ringing his old boss and giving him an earful. He wondered if they'd give him a phone. When he'd asked, Veronique had only given him a pointed look, in her very specific way.

After that, he was only allowed a computer when Veronique was in the room.

One day, in late November, he'd sent her home.

"What?" she'd asked.

"Go home. For the night. Or for a few hours. Go to a bar. To a café. Wherever. Not here."

"Sam, why?" She still called him Sam, the only person who did.

"Because you need me not to be your life," he'd replied. "At least for a little while."

"_Tu m'as besion_," she'd said simply. _You need me_. The first time she'd spoken to him in French while not frantically trying to calm him down.

"Yes," he'd answered. "I do. But you need you, too. And they keep telling me I will need to learn to be on my own."

"_Non_."

"_Oui, Veronique. Allez._" He thought it was the French that had convinced her. The first time he's spoken it since calling her after being dragged out of the river, which he remembered only sometimes.

She'd gone for the night, and Sam had sat up awake the entire night, clutching his blankets, trying to convince himself that yes, Moriarty was dead, that no, he was not going to find Sam, to abduct him again, to rape him again, to kill him this time. He made it through the night, white-knuckled, refusing any of the sedatives. Sometimes they listened to him about that now, since he didn't scream at them so much, but still flinched away from everyone, even the women.

Sometimes, he dreamt Sherlock came to visit, and was relieved, although confused, because how did he know where to go? The one other person Sam could trust.

It was why he'd sent Veronique home. He needed to know he could make it through several undrugged hours without her. Could he make it a full day? He did not know.

On December sixth, he sent her to England, with news.

There had been a row about this. She hadn't wanted to alert them, saying Sherlock and John had been at Sam's funeral and to let it rest, because it kept him safe. Safe from what, he'd asked. Safe from Moriarty, who was dead? That wasn't necessary. Safe from his own memories? That was impossible.

"Just safe," she'd replied in her infuriatingly calm voice.

If Sam knew Sherlock Holmes half as well as he thought he did, then the other man suspected Sam wasn't dead.

It wasn't enough.

He needed them to know.

"Please," he'd said simply and it had crumbled her resolve, which had been weak to begin with.

She'd allowed him only one thing, the copy of his new identity file, and he'd written Sherlock a brief note. Writing was still hard, because he was right handed and his right shoulder was still mending, frustratingly slowly. Two dislocations in the space of two weeks, plus two surgeries, was not a good mix. It felt good to sign his old initials, to make this contact, however distant, with someone who actually knew _him._

Sam.

Not the victim. Not the patient. Not the man who could only be touched briefly, with warning, clinically. Someone who existed outside the hospital. Who had a personality that went beyond rape victim with post-traumatic stress disorder. Someone who liked Doctor Who and disliked English breakfast tea because the smell reminded him of old socks. Someone who had sat in a bar, wearing cologne he knew drove Sherlock mad, enjoying the company of the consulting detective and the doctor.

He wondered, often, if either of them knew how much they were loved by the other.

She'd gone, then come back. Mission _accompli._

Sam had thanked her and she'd smoothed back his light hair, so short now, because they'd had to shave it off to deal with his head injuries. He still had stitches covered with bandages, but his head wasn't wrapped anymore, so he didn't have constant, low-grade headaches.

"_Bienvenue_," she'd replied, kissing him lightly on the forehead. Sam clung to the feel of her lips, because it was the only close contact he could tolerate, and that even made him feel warm and loved.

That night, John had made a short blog post. Sam wondered if the doctor even suspected that Sam was a regular reader now, but didn't know.

The post read:

News from an old friend on the front lines. Always good to hear things are going well enough. Take care of yourself, and those around you. We're all thinking of you back home.

It had made him cry. Just tears on his cheeks and Veronique had left him alone for awhile, the first time he'd been allowed to be alone with a computer since he'd thrown the last one at the wall, breaking it, not to mention putting a dent in the wall itself, chipping away at the soothing blue paint.

That had been at almost eleven-thirty that night. Sam had stayed up – sleeping was still too hard anyway for him to approach it with anything short of trepidation – and shortly after midnight, John had made another post.

Happy first anniversary, Sherlock. Thank you for the adventure so far. I love you. John.

It had made Sam smile in a way he had not since before the day on the bridge. The simplicity was beautiful, understated but honest. He wondered at how lucky they were, how rare it was to find something so present and genuine.

For the first time since Moriarty had taken him, seven years before, then again in October, Sam Waters felt like he might actually be all right, given time.


	4. Chapter 4

(January 25th, 2013)

Turn the coffee pot on.

Check out the window.

Nothing.

Eggs and bread from the fridge, plug the toaster in.

Check out the window again.

Still nothing.

But no, because that black car had been there seventy-three seconds.

Someone emerged from a building, got into it, and it pulled away.

Watching it until it disappeared, tugging his lower lip between his teeth.

Frying pan out of the cupboard, and two coffee cups, and the sugar.

Check out the window again.

Sherlock caught himself, forcing himself to refocus on making breakfast, but kept chewing on his lower lip, displacing his anxiety without realizing it. His eyes would flicker to the window of their own accord and he'd drag them back. Everything was taking so much longer this morning, as if the minutes were distended, drawing themselves out as long as they possibly could.

The sound of a car door slamming on the street below the flat made him jump.

No, he would not look.

Mycroft wouldn't slam his door anyway. It was too uncontrolled. He'd close it gently, firmly, at precisely the volume he wanted.

Sherlock popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and turned it on, then drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter.

Jumpy.

He was always jumpy.

This was worse.

This wasn't his mind as he chased down a new puzzle. This wasn't his choice, to throw all of his considerable energy into a challenge. Nervous energy caused by actually being nervous was new.

And extremely unpleasant.

Why did anyone tolerate this? He felt as though his skin were crawling, and it was disturbing and mildly revolting. It was inappropriate that his body not respond to his commands and continue to feel this way. He did not want to give Mycroft any reaction, even if his brother didn't know it was happening. It was enough that Sherlock knew. He passed a hand across his face, frowning, unhappy with himself. He really ought to be able to control things better.

Was Mycroft doing this on purpose?

Waiting was tortuous. Was he going to come by unannounced? Or would he honour John's warning and not come by at all?

Not knowing was insufferable. With anyone else, he could have made an accurate prediction. With Mycroft, he did not know. He never did. It was infuriating.

That was how his brother preferred things. That was why he did this.

Made Sherlock feel powerless, so he could retain control.

"Blast," Sherlock muttered to himself and closed his eyes.

One deep breath.

Another.

Slowly.

He'd learned this from John. Counting the seconds on the inhalations, counting the seconds on the exhalations. It slowed his heart rate, at least, even if it didn't banish the anxiety altogether. Gave his mind some control over this traitorous body that seemed determined to worry about his brother despite the fact that, damn him, Sherlock was not going to have anything more to do with him.

After a minute, he reopened his eyes and turned to get the cream for the coffee from the fridge.

John was standing behind him.

Sherlock noted this just in time to avoid being startled, but John had never been able to sneak up on him before, not once.

_Damn and blast!_ Sherlock thought, suddenly angry with himself. He had enough time, barely, to note the look in John's eyes before John kissed him and Sherlock forgot that he had been taken by surprise. He felt himself responding – in this, he was more than willing to let his body do what it pleased, because it always aligned with his mind's interests.

John's lips were warm, his breath tasted like toothpaste. His hands were cold, sliding under Sherlock's pyjama top, leaving icy little trails up his skin, doubling back down once, which made Sherlock growl and John smile. He let them trail upward again, agonizingly slowly, until they came to his nipples, brushing over each of them, making Sherlock moan into their kiss. John teased Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, nipping it gently, then sucking on it, sending a shock of desire down Sherlock's spine. His hands kept up their work and Sherlock felt that desire coil in his stomach, heating his blood and focusing his attention only on what was happening now. He curled a hand into John's hair, the other on John's waist, drawing him closer.

They paused for a gasping breath for a moment, then John pulled him back into another kiss, hands sliding out from under Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock felt a stab of disappointment, quickly replaced when John's fingers made quick work of the buttons, sliding the fabric from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. He traced his fingers along Sherlock's back, to his shoulders, then down his chest again.

Sherlock hissed, wanting more.

He knew why John was doing this. Sherlock was always much more relaxed after sex.

Well, that was one reason John was doing this. There were others, which were more immediately apparent.

John pulled him out of the kitchen, shedding their clothes quickly on the way, leaving a short trail into the livingroom. They made it only as far as the couch, the bedroom being much too far away at the moment. They wrestled for purchased for a moment, chuckling, on a couch that was not particularly ideal for holding two grown men, especially one of Sherlock's height. He liked this, it gave them less space, and space was not something he wanted at the moment.

He reached out, fumbling for the drawer in the small end table beside the couch, but then John began trailing kisses down his neck, landing on the sensitive spot near Sherlock's collarbone, making him gasp. John's hips rocked against his and Sherlock forgot was he was doing, arching back slightly, hand returning to grip John's hair, to keep his lips and tongue where they were.

John chuckled against Sherlock's throat, the sensation making Sherlock's skin blaze. He gave a soft moan and jerked John's head back up, finding his lips again, sliding his tongue over John's teeth. John chuckled into the kiss as well, grasping Sherlock's hand and extending his arm again toward the small table, running his hand down the underside of said arm as he did so.

"We're going to need that momentarily," he murmured, breaking the kiss.

Sherlock refocused long enough to yank open the drawer and curl his fingers over the small bottle inside. They kept a number of these scattered throughout the flat, for when the situation became too heated to stop and fetch one from the bedroom. Like now.

John laughed again and took the small bottle from Sherlock, brown eyes glinting brightly. The familiar snapping sound from the cap and all of the promises of what would immediately follow stopped Sherlock from thinking altogether.

* * *

They lay tangled afterwards, breathing gradually slowing, John's fingertips tracing vague patterns on Sherlock's back, up his neck, weaving gently into his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes, relaxing.

He did feel better.

He knew what John was up to the past week, much more physical – which took a lot, since John was naturally an attentive person and it wasn't as though their sex life was sparse, or anywhere close to. Sherlock pretended he didn't notice, knowing, of course, that John knew this. He appreciated his husband's efforts, but wasn't sure how to react yet. Not to John, but to Mycroft.

No, he wouldn't let himself feel anything about that, not right now. Not lying here entangled with John on a rainy January morning, where he belonged. Where they both belonged.

After several minutes – not long enough, because Sherlock felt he could stay like this all day – John shifted.

"All right, I do need to have breakfast and go to work."

Sherlock raised his head reluctantly, then sat up, pulling away from the heat of John's body, feeling a pang of regret. He kissed John again, who returned it.

"We'll pick up again this evening," John promised and Sherlock chuckled.

They dressed again, Sherlock back into his pyjamas and John into his work clothing, the shirt was slightly rumpled but it wouldn't matter since he wore a lab coat all day anyway. Sherlock didn't bother changing yet – he was still in charge of making breakfast. The toast had finished while they were still at it, and was cold now, so he binned it and threw two fresh slices in the toaster, fixing John's coffee as the eggs sizzled in the frying pan.

Living with a doctor could be trying at times. Not with John, only the doctor part of John. Breakfast, the most important meal of the day, after all. Sherlock ate more only in self-defence, to avoid the badgering, although it did make him feel more focused. He did not bother sharing this with John, who'd only use it as ammunition when Sherlock didn't feel like eating.

John took the coffee gratefully, swallowed his meal quickly, then kissed Sherlock and was out the door, umbrella in hand. Sherlock sat in front of his own empty plate, coffee mug nestled between his hands, in the silent flat. He considered showering, but he smelled of sex and John, a smell he liked, but which no one else seemed to notice. Other people were staggeringly bad at picking up on smells, he thought. He wondered why. He closed his eyes and inhaled – no, he did not want to wash this scent away.

He was fine for five minutes, before the edginess came back.

He prowled about the flat, trying to focus on some experiment, but nothing held his interest. Every few minutes, he was glancing out the window into the rain, trying to spot if anyone was watching the flat. He'd stopped checking on Mycroft's people's files, cutting off any contact. He wondered how long it would take for their mother to call him and complain that he wasn't staying in touch with his brother. As if this were his fault.

Sherlock dressed finally, consenting to drag a comb through his tangled curls, which John had done a good job messing up. He considered calling John at work and asking him to come home, but dismissed this almost as soon as he'd thought it, because it was not going to get any results. Instead, he put on his coat, gloves, scarf and shoes and snagged his umbrella, heading out of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson came out when she heard his door closing, which Sherlock had been hoping to avoid. He greeted her and tried to pretend he had some destination in mind for leaving the house, but ended up agreeing to pick up some milk and bread for her, since she didn't want to leave the house in such foul weather. Her hip was bothering her, she commented, and it wouldn't do to slip and break it.

Sherlock took the money she pressed into his hand, then escaped, opening the umbrella and dodging someone walking in front of the house. He gave the man a glare as he went by, but the other pedestrian was distracted with juggling his umbrella, wallet and iPod, not someone who was keeping an eye on Sherlock, then.

He set off without any particular destination in mind, angling his umbrella against the light wind, keeping mostly dry, save for his pant cuffs. Sherlock wandered about, never uncertain about where he was, then eventually headed for the tube and took the line into the center of the city, emerging near the Strand, which was crowded with tourists even in January, even in the rain. Here, at least, if anyone was following him, it would be more difficult to track him, and gave him some semblance of privacy, even if it was false. The ubiquitous presence of umbrellas made everything seem removed, as if they ensured a tiny portion of seclusion to each pedestrian who huddled under one.

He ended up at some pub about two hours after leaving the house and ordered a coffee. The waitress, a young woman – a bit too much make up, insecure, father was present but emotionally absent, needed the attention of men to feel better about herself, but it was never enough, always the doubts lingered beneath the surface – brought it out and Sherlock wondered if drinking it was a good idea. It might make him jumpier. He'd taken up a position in front of the window so he could survey the street, sharp eyes watching any familiar faces or anyone lingering too long.

Would the coffee heighten his awareness or distract him? Only one way to find out. Like an experiment.

He drank it, then ordered another.

No one seemed to stand out. He could peg the Americans, most of them, and the Canadians, and could tell the difference, even if the Canadians weren't sporting their national flag, a tendency they'd adopted to distinguish themselves. The North Americans all clutched maps and umbrellas, trying to orient themselves. He could spot the occasional French person who was visiting, not working here, moving through the crowd with assurance, as if London was just a more northerly extension of Paris, of home.

The waitress brought a second cup of coffee, with a slice of cake. Sherlock ignored the cake and drank the coffee, putting more sugar in it than necessary. Time passed without incident as he kept track of the crowds, distracting himself somewhat with picking out certain people and telling himself their stories.

A man stopped outside the window at one point, under the awning, folding down his umbrella and pulling out a package of cigarettes. It made Sherlock somewhat envious and he wished he hadn't left his patches at home. About forty-three, thinning hair, receding somewhat, but not enough that he'd lose it all within the next decade, but maybe by the end of his life. Tall, but not as tall as Sherlock, carried himself without thinking about it, not slouching, but not gracefully either. Wasn't inactive, but spent most of his time at a desk. Businessman, tailored suit, falsely cheerfully tie just visible beneath the dark blue trench coat, gloves slightly frayed at the wrists from being taken on and off a lot, so that he could light a cigarette. Good gloves, though, leather, but old, sentimental value, or else he'd have replaced them because of the wear at the wrists. Given to him by a wife or child. Gold wedding ring on his left finger was old, plain, but didn't look it would come off easily, not any more.

The man caught Sherlock's eye and gave a nod. Sherlock nodded in return, sipping his coffee. Not a personal exchange, just happened to share a greeting with another London stranger.

He came in a few minutes later and sat down two seats away from Sherlock, not bothering with him. Sherlock could smell the lingering cigarette smoke, and this was distracting. Something about the man's demeanour reminded him of something, but he could not place his finger on it. This was also distracting. Not one of Mycroft's people, no. But something.

Time to go.

He drained his coffee and shrugged his coat back on.

"Cake?" he offered as he stood. The other man looked up, blue eyes meeting his grey ones.

"Sorry?"

"Cake? Came with the coffee, but I don't care for it."

The man gave a quick smile.

"I'd never say no to that. 'Specially not if the wife won't find out. Cheers."

Sherlock slid the cake across the counter table and then pulled his own gloves on, rescuing his umbrella from the stand near the door, and stepped back into the rain.

* * *

He stayed out until precisely four that afternoon, leaving the Strand area shortly thereafter, but not before walking down near the Waterloo Bridge and staring it for several minutes. He could identify the exact spot where Sam and Moriarty had fallen. Let Mycroft's people see him here and think he was regretting Sam's death.

He wondered if he could alert Interpol as to what was happening, without alerting Mycroft at the same time.

They may well already know.

He picked up Mrs. Hudson's bread and milk and delivered them to her before heading up to his flat, which was colder than he preferred. He upped the heat and shucked his wet coat and scarf, leaving the umbrella open but not in the way of the door, so John could not yell about it when he got home. Sherlock didn't want to irritate John that evening – he wanted something else from John.

He changed his pants, which were unpleasantly damp around the ankles from the rain, putting on the jeans that John loved, another tactic to get the doctor's attention.

Then he checked out the window.

And realized he'd done it again.

"Bloody, bloody hell," Sherlock muttered, stalking to the bookshelf and selecting one of the books John had bought him for Christmas. He threw himself on the couch and opened it, trying to ignore the nagging sensation he was being watched. He wasn't going to let Mycroft know this was bothering him.

Several minutes later, his phone buzzed. He picked it up from the coffee table, lying down further on the couch – which still smelled like John – and opened the message.

_You at home?_

_Yes._ Sherlock texted back.

_On my way back. Picking up Indian, so I'll be about half an hour._

_Right._ Sherlock replied and went back to his reading. How was it that John knew precisely what to get for him? It was a hidden talent, perhaps.

Just over half an hour later, he heard the key in the lock of the door downstairs and voices. Sherlock tensed without intending to – one voice was John's, but the other was familiar as well. Female. Not Mrs. Hudson. Tricia.

He cursed to himself, sitting up quickly, and looked about the flat. He hadn't seen her since the incident at her flat the previous week, and that had been deliberate. Sherlock did not know what to do, and since he disliked not knowing what to do, he opted for avoiding the situation altogether. Plus, Tricia and Henry were still in their hotel room, as their kitchen floor was redone. They were set to return in a day or two.

He could go out by the fire escape. Or hide. Or just shut himself in the bedroom and pretend to be tired.

And then John would give him a pointed look. And possibly withhold sex.

Not a good choice, then.

Plus, John had texted him specifically to see if he were home.

Devious little bastard. He'd done that on purpose.

Sherlock sighed and put his book away, resigning himself to his fate. He wondered if any of Mycroft's people had noted Tricia's presence, then tried not to think about that, because it made him feel uncomfortable, uncertain, and threatened to force him to remember what had happened the _last_ time they'd noted her presence.

He smoothed his features over and waited for them to come up the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

(January 25th, 2013)

John knew Sherlock would be displeased. He wasn't thrilled about that, since an unhappy Sherlock was prone to sulking and ignoring him. He was fully prepared to sleep alone that night, while Sherlock sat awake on the couch, trying to prove some point to John. This wouldn't be the first time, and if John just let it go, then Sherlock eventually got huffy, then bored, then distracted by something else altogether and forgot he'd been annoyed in the first place. Sometimes, if he was really and truly angry at John, he'd hold out, but this didn't happen often, and John was beginning to be able to tell the difference. Sherlock didn't deal with being shaken up very well at all, but he'd never really learned to distinguish between irritation that he wasn't getting his way and real anger.

The situation with Mycroft was probably helping that, although helping may have been a dubious word choice.

John suspected that real anger from Sherlock wasn't hot and sharp, wasn't a stinging attack aimed at wounding feelings or pride, but cold. Like a wall-of-ice-covering-the-continent cold. John didn't think Sherlock had ever wanted to stop loving someone. He disliked people – a lot of people – and was indifferent to many more, but he loved so few people. John wondered what Mycroft would think, when the man finally realized he was being genuinely frozen out. What would it be like when he understood his younger brother wasn't irritated, but furious? When he started to see that there were limits, and he'd pushed Sherlock past them?

What was it like, he wondered, to realize you'd hurt someone too much?

Even John had never quite reached that point with Harry.

He knew that Sherlock wouldn't be that angry with him for bringing Tricia over, and it was certainly better than her springing herself upon him, which John knew full well she would have done, given another day or two. He wondered if Sherlock had suspected this, and was trying to avoid it.

No avoiding it now.

She walked with him up the street, carrying the takeaway bag in her hand, the two of them discussing work, not names of patients, but details of cases that were on their hands at the moments. It was nice to talk to a doctor who didn't work directly with him.

As they approached the house, John switched the subject.

"He's been edgy."

"I don't blame him," Tricia said simply. John shot her a look and she shook her head. "No, Johnny, I'm fine."

"Will you stop calling me that?" he growled.

She laughed.

"Not likely."

John sighed. Years of protesting had never gotten him anywhere.

"Well, at least you haven't started Sherlock calling me that," he admitted.

"_Yet_," she stressed. John gave her a wounded look and she snickered triumphantly.

"He _is_ edgy. Just be warned."

"And he has every right to be," she replied. "But thanks for the head's up. Other than that, how's he holding up?"

John sighed.

"Worse than he's letting on, I think." He paused, dropping his voice. "He's scared, Tee. And that's not something he's going to cop to."

"Well, I'd be scared if I had a brother like that, too. I'm frankly edgy about Mycroft Holmes as it is."

John nodded, running a hand through his hair, adjusting the umbrella he was holding over them slightly. He was uneasy with and intimidated by Mycroft as well. What had he said the first time he'd met the other man? Something about not being scared by him?

Amazing, what a little time and involvement can do. Back then, he'd meant it. Now, he could not have said that without lying.

More than anything, he was frightened about Mycroft ruining Sherlock without even knowing, trying, or noticing.

Not at all like Moriarty, who had wanted to win, and wanted Sherlock to know he'd won.

And John suspected that shooting Mycroft wasn't actually an option, because getting close enough to do so and then walk away was nigh impossible, and Mycroft wouldn't get himself into a situation where anyone could get away with it. Moriarty had abducted and held a police constable hostage, threatening to either shoot him or blow up part of a bridge. The crown prosecutor hadn't even hesitated in deciding not to press charges. A dead constable – yes, he was not actually dead, but no one knew that at the time, and only John and Sherlock knew that now – made a significant difference in the attitude of the court.

John suspected a dead Mycroft Holmes would just bring down the wrath of whoever he worked for. Which was counter to what John wanted.

Which, when he really, honestly got down to it, was to be left in peace.

Without having to deal with anyone being edgy and scared.

Sherlock scared was different than Tricia scared, though. Tricia scared knew how to handle it. She'd been well trained, and had not spent her life embracing any lack of emotional response. She'd agreed to see a therapist following the hit woman incident without any question or prodding. She'd shot someone following a stand off, and recognized this needed addressing.

A far cry from Sherlock.

Even though John really thought Sherlock had been fine the day following Moriarty's death. As is shooting Moriarty wasn't quite the same as shooting another person.

He thought of Sam's face on the CCTV camera feed from that day.

Perhaps it was like shooting a monster in human form. John was no stranger to the desensitization that happened in the military, which was essential for soldiers, or else how to pull the trigger on another human being? The instinct to pull back, to revolt from that kind of action, was strong. It had to be, otherwise, the species wouldn't survive.

John had his own opinions about people like Moriarty, though. True psychopaths, who played the world for their own amusement, not small games and little discords and petty crimes, but men – mostly men, but some women, too, yes – who had decided that the rules didn't apply to them, who had checked themselves out mentally, who had decided that inflicting terror was fun. Not what everyone called terrorists, not people who wanted power.

True terrorists, who only wanted the fear.

John wished that some solution could present itself.

"It'll do him no good to try and hole up, though," Tricia continued.

"Try telling him that," John muttered, unlocking the door.

"Maybe I will," she replied and he glanced back at her in surprise. She raised an eyebrow in return and John opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it.

Yes, he knew how to deal with Sherlock, but Sherlock also knew how John dealt with him.

Let him learn how someone else dealt with him. It might just unbalance him enough right now to actually help.

They went up the stairs and John knew Sherlock was already aware that Tricia was with them. Mrs. Hudson came out and greeted them – Tricia was as pleasant and cheerful as she always was dealing with John and Sherlock's landlady, and John wondered at how someone else's life could look from the outside. Mrs. Hudson didn't know anything about the situation from the previous weekend, nor about the hit woman, other than there had been some disturbance in the York Street area, which she didn't associate with Tricia. John was glad – he really didn't want to call any more attention to it than necessary.

Thankfully, the police had locked things down quickly and gotten Tricia out of there fast. Since John and Sherlock had arrived before the police and the hit woman disarmed and dead right before they burst in, there hadn't been much time for reporters to gather. John had been impressed by Lestrade's ability to get things wrapped up and feed lies to the media, although he understood the necessity. No one wanted to know there'd been a hit woman running about their neighbourhood, holding a pregnant woman hostage. The tabloids would have had a field day. Their success was not even on John's list of priorities. All three of them, and the dead woman, had been kept out of the news.

A disturbance in the York area late Saturday morning that was quickly resolved by police.

Sounded like a domestic dispute. Something most people would flip past in the newspaper without even reading it.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch glaring at the television, which was turned off, when they came in. John recognized the look – Sherlock was uncertain about what to do, and knew John wouldn't let him get away with avoiding it. He didn't look up for a moment, one small protesting hold out, like a sullen teenager, which made John want to laugh, but he knew better.

"Indian, as promised," John said and Tricia held up the bag as evidence, as John locked the door behind him.

Sherlock finally dragged his grey eyes to them, still frowning.

"Are there clean plates? Without eyeballs or spleens on them perhaps?" John asked, hanging his coat as Tricia put the bag down on the coffee table. Sherlock's eyes flickered to it and John could see hunger there – actual hunger, and he wondered how much Sherlock had eaten that day since breakfast, if anything. Probably nothing.

"I was out," Sherlock said by way of reply. John hung Tricia's coat and opened his umbrella back up, putting it next to Sherlock's still open but dry one. He waited to see if Sherlock would reclaim his umbrella and fold it away, but he didn't, so John did it for him. Normally he would let Sherlock stumble over it, or need it again, but he was willing to make some concessions in the name of peace today.

"I'll do the dishes then," John said. "Tee, anything to drink?"

"Ginger ale, if you've got it."

John nodded. He was used to drinking gin with her – what Sherlock called 'that army swill', because it was what they'd drank together in the service and it was pretty awful, admittedly – but she was not going to be drinking for awhile, of course. He always felt odd about women who were pregnant but not showing, as if they were hiding some big secret. It always made him chuckle at himself, because really, was it their responsibility to announce they were pregnant, maybe write it on a little placard? Hardly.

He went into the kitchen, keeping his ears open.

"You're not going to throw up, are you?" Sherlock asked. John cast a glance back into the livingroom to see Tricia sitting down on the couch, comfortably resting her feet on the coffee table.

"First, it's just after five in the evening, and morning sickness is traditionally in the morning. Second, I haven't actually had many problems with that," she replied, crossing her arms lightly over her stomach, giving him an amused look.

"No Henry tonight?" Sherlock asked. John rolled his eyes – was he being deliberately petulant? Yes.

"Working," Tricia replied easily. John considered that Tricia and Henry's schedules worked because they both kept hectic and odd hours. Tricia was almost always on call, since her patients could go into labour at any time, and Henry was a lawyer for a multinational corporation headquartered in Cairo but with a large branch office here in London. His work kept him out a lot, as well, and he travelled to Africa and the Middle East routinely on business, as well as New York once in awhile. John wondered what a baby was going to do to those schedules, but didn't worry about it much. They'd sort it out. They'd have to.

John finished cleaning the plates and inspected several forks and spoons, sniffing them carefully in case they'd been cleaned with something that was actually toxic, but Sherlock had gotten pretty good at keeping his experiments separate from the utensils and dishes they actually used to eat, after John had begun insisting, and as long as John kept an eye on things.

John brought the dishes and cutlery into the livingroom, then fetched a ginger ale from the cupboard for Tricia, removing a jar that contained a human ear – he did not want to know – which he stuck it in one of Sherlock's equipment cupboards and didn't mention. He got a beer for himself, thankful nothing untoward was in the fridge today.

"Sherlock, drink?" he called.

He didn't get an answer, so he snagged a bottle for Sherlock as well. Even odds on whether or not he'd actually drink it that night. He passed out beverages in the livingroom, then sank thankfully in his chair. It felt good to be home, even if Sherlock was being stubborn. Tricia was already serving herself, and just to irritate Sherlock more, John dished him up a plate. The detective's grey eyes widened and he flared his nostrils when John handed it over.

"I am perfectly capable of doing that myself," he pointed out coolly.

"Yes, I love you, too," John replied affably, ignoring Tricia's quick grin. Sherlock looked between them, then took the plate with a glare at John. "You're welcome," the doctor added, fighting down a smile of his own.

Tricia filled them in on the repairs to their kitchen floor, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. They were supposed to be home by the following afternoon, or at the latest, the morning after that, she told them. She was looking forward to it, because although the hotel was nice, it wasn't her bed, which she missed. John was glad to hear that the hotel he'd insisted the police put them in was decent, at least.

Sherlock had a hunted look, as if he were expecting at any minute for some unpleasant surprise to be sprung upon him, but unwilling to say anything about it in case he called attention to it. But Tricia avoided any mention of the hit woman or Mycroft Holmes. She asked him what he was working on, which Sherlock answered guardedly, pushing his fork about his plate, even though John could tell he was clearly hungry. At one point he caught John's eye, and the doctor gave him a look that told him to eat. Sherlock did so, slowly, as if this might delay the inevitable.

He told her of his latest experiments, which Tricia listened to with genuine interest, and, John suspect, morbid fascination. She gave one or two suggestions of her own. John rolled his eyes, half wishing she wouldn't encourage him. Nothing worse than a doctor for coming up with ideas about dead bodies and he would know. Unless it was a forensics tech. He made a mental note to get ahold of Amanda at St. Bart's and have her call Sherlock as soon as they had some new body in on which he could experiment. That would help him get back into his regular routine, too. John couldn't have him prowling the flat all day, every day, because of the risk of fires or explosions. He wanted to have an actual flat to come home to in the evenings, one that wasn't filled with toxic smoke clouds or suspicious odours.

John was going to beat Sherlock over the head with his life, if he had to.

Despite himself, Sherlock was being drawn into the conversation, clinging to his unvoiced concern that Tricia was going to drop some emotionally charged and pointed conversation on him, but not quite able to resist when she talked about the possibility of scrounging medical supplies and body parts for him from her hospital's incinerator for him.

"Really, Tee?" John asked. "We've enough eyeballs and ears about the flat."

"How about fingers?" she asked, grinning at him. "Can't have enough of those. I bet there's loads of fingerprint experiments that still need to be done."

John gave a groan, half-real, half-theatrical, and Sherlock's eyes lit up. At the back of John's mind, a little voice, like an audio track that could not be silenced, reminded him that a year ago on that day, Sherlock had not been able to see. The brightness in his eyes now at least was welcome, even if the source was suspect. He had to stop that, constantly reminding himself of the events of a day a year passed. It made him wonder if he was only remembering it, or trying to remind himself of how much worse things had been back then.

_No_, he thought. _They weren't. _Sherlock may have been fighting blindness they didn't know was temporary, but he wasn't fighting the fear of loving someone who terrified him, who could hurt those he loved with a word, who had been involved in the murders of a seven-year-old and a fifteen-year-old girl. Back then, Mycroft had been working to protect him. Now? Did he think because Moriarty was dead, Sherlock would stop working? Or he wouldn't need to be protected?

John wished he knew, wished to all hell he knew. The sensation of not knowing, of watching Sherlock live in fear of someone he loved, of his own brother for God's sake, made John feel ill. He suppressed it savagely, dragging his focus back to Tricia and Sherlock's conversation about whether or not fire retardant chemicals had an effect on cremation if they were applied to only the clothing or to the whole body.

Come to think of it, this made him slightly ill, too.

Sherlock ignored his beer, so John drank it, feeling slightly more relaxed from the alcohol. He could see Sherlock relaxing, too, but suspiciously – only he could relax and be suspicious at the same time. It was a special skill. As if letting down his guard would alert Tricia and she'd jump on the chance to lecture him, or make him hug or cry, or something.

John tried to imagine that. He found he couldn't. But the effort made him smile.

Tricia left early, claiming to be tired. John knew this was true; the first trimester was the worst for fatigue, even if she'd been having few problems with other symptoms, such as morning sickness. Just after seven and she had faint circles under her eyes and her gaze was less sharp than before.

Sherlock seemed relieved, as if he'd dodged a bullet, as Tricia put on her coat and borrowed a spare umbrella from John. John could almost see the gears turning in Sherlock's head – briskly, of course – that were telling him he'd made it through without any lecturing, and only had to survive a few short minutes until it was all done.

Tricia stepped out the door onto the stairwell landing, then paused, turning back.

"By the way, Holmes, in case it's slipped that magnificent mind of yours, it was me who disarmed that hit man and shot her with her own weapon, despite the fact that she had her gun aimed at my head. You can feel misplaced guilt all you want because your brother is apparently some sort of CIA-Bond supervillain, but you aren't getting rid of me that easily. I _can_ take care of myself, and you are _not_ getting out of being an uncle." She paused, flashing them both a grin, genuine despite the tiredness that clung to the edges of her eyes. "Good night."

She closed the door, her footsteps receding down the stairs, and John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's expression, warring between disbelief and relief. He collected the plates and left Sherlock standing there, staring at the door, as if uncertain about what had just happened. It wasn't often when someone who wasn't John shut Sherlock up, and he wanted his husband to remember that for a good, long time.


	6. Chapter 6

(February 2nd, 2013)

Something was wrong.

Of course, something was always wrong these days. Sam had once made himself remember when something had felt right. October fourth, the day before he'd gotten the text from Moriarty. A lifetime ago. Literally, since he was technically dead and was now someone else.

Now it was a matter of finding one moment a day when someone wasn't wrong, when things felt okay. Not good, not great, not even all right. Just okay. A minute when his heart didn't race. When someone new didn't startle him. When he didn't feel watched. A time when he might stand outside, with close supervision, of course, and enjoy the fresh air, rather than feel like he was going to be attacked. The moment after showering – which he always did with his eyes tightly shut because he could not bear to look at his scars and injuries – when he'd dressed, when his body seemed normal. Seemed like it still belonged to him.

Maybe a dry chuckle from Veronique about something, or one of the nurses smiling, or a physiotherapist giving him a chocolate bar as a reward for staying on top of his exercises.

They kept him at the hospital because he was still recovering – a person didn't fall off a bridge over the Thames without serious consequences – but also because he couldn't go anywhere else. He couldn't function on his own yet, nor could Veronique care for him. He still stiffened when faced with strange men, and wasn't allowed out of sight of any of the hospital staff or any of the other Interpol agents. He wasn't allowed to be on his own, except for in the hospital, and had to shower with the door open so they could tell he wasn't about to slit his wrists or some stupid thing like that. He made them promise not to come in or look, as long as he kept the door open, because Sam didn't think he could handle anyone else seeing him naked, seeing as he could not handle even looking at himself. A nurse would always wait for him, facing resolutely away from the door, but even that made him weak at first, although he forced himself to grow used to it, because it was that or not shower.

He had been promoted out of field agent status as soon as they were sure he wasn't going to die. That hadn't been a surprise – even he knew there was no way he was ever going to be well enough again to go back out under cover or even as an identified Interpol field agent. He was certain there was a nice, shiny desk job waiting for him somewhere on the other side of this, as if there were an end coming. As if someone was planning for a day when he would not be in the hospital, not be an invalid.

Someone had long sight, indeed, because there were times where he made it through the day a single breath at a time.

It was better now. Often, he could go almost two hours without starting to feel panicked or exhausted.

And they let him have a laptop without Veronique's supervision, since he had proven he wasn't going to break any more of them. This helped, despite the concern from his panel of psychiatrists and psychologists and doctors, who didn't want him causing himself stress. But Sam felt cut off in the hospital, taken away from the life he'd known since he had begun training at eighteen, ten years ago now – an actual decade, not adjusted for the ages of his aliases. He read the _Times_ faithfully, every day, and the BBC news website, as well as other major European newspapers, and the major news outlets (the reliable ones anyway) for the rest of the world.

Blogs, too. London Metro police officer's blogs, men and women he'd known, had worked with. His former partner, Carolyn Edwards, had a blog, mostly about her personal life, less about her job, but he read it happily, glad to see she was getting along with her new partner. He could read Sherlock's blog now and not feel frustrated with the lack of normal information, but it was John's blog he enjoyed most.

Especially the post on the twentieth, which read simply:

Thanks for the card, B. Good to hear from you! As always, take care.

He replied to nothing, of course, because Veronique might have yelled at him, PTSD or no PTSD, she wasn't above that. Of everyone he knew now, she was the one who held him truly accountable to himself, who pressed him into not wallowing in self-pity, unless he really needed to. And she could tell the difference.

But this time, what was wrong wasn't with him.

Years of training and finely honed instinct and connections that other agencies only dreamt of alerted him. A short article in the London papers on the morning of the twentieth about some disturbance in the York Street area in London, which wouldn't be that important, if Sam hadn't known that Sherlock and John had a friend who lived in that area, and if he hadn't been an Interpol agent.

Someone had told Veronique, who had told him that this had involved Sherlock somehow. They weren't sure how, and Sam believed her when she said this, because Veronique was nothing if not good at getting what she wanted. Sam suspected he was the only person who could make her give way, and only right now, because he was recovering. She wasn't much for bending her will when she wanted something, or accepting compromises. She could call in favours that would have made the director of the CIA pale or blush, depending on his proclivities, and she kept tight track of who owed her what. Even if she wasn't owed something by someone, she was good at getting her way.

Good was an understatement.

John mentioned nothing about this on his blog, nor did Sherlock on his. The police blogs and official notices had no information and the papers didn't say anything more about it. But Sam's search – unauthorized and possibly illegal, but Interpol would have given him retroactive approval had he required it – of recent hospital records found a Doctor Tricia Remsen admitted overnight on the nineteenth for observation in connection with a police case, but no more details. She'd been released the following morning, but there were no injuries listed or treatments.

Then one of Veronique's contacts still in England told her that a hit woman that Interpol had been trying to track for several months had gone dark.

It might be a coincidence, but Sam's instincts told him not, and he'd been trained to listen to them, even if he could trust nothing else about his body and mind right now.

This had something to do with Sherlock, or, more specifically, his brother, on whom Interpol had a very extensive file that Sam had accessed and memorized before even meeting Sherlock. Back when Interpol realized that Moriarty was fixating on Sherlock and this might be a way to get to the man who was after Sam. Mycroft Holmes commanded amazing resources that would stun and beggar most of the members of the British government, that extended to surveillance of his brother and John, that plunged into depths unimaginable to most people, but that had nothing on Interpol.

Interpol had locked down his computer system when Mycroft had tried to access Sam's files, and had forced him into retreat without ever revealing their identities. Sam knew full well that Mycroft Holmes still had no idea he was alive, and had not known for whom he worked until he'd "died".

The hit woman was associated with him at least somehow, and Sam knew in his gut that it had something to do with the disturbance in the York Street area and Tricia Remsen's overnight hospitalization.

The idea of something happen to someone else was electrifying, not necessarily in a good way, but it had been so incredibly long since anyone's problems had resonated with him that Sam actually felt alive again. Like he wasn't trapped in some well labelled PTSD that meant he could not interact with the rest of the world.

"I want to go see them," he told Veronique.

"You're crazy," she replied.

"Yes, I know. They tell me that every day, although they call it post-traumatic stress. Veronique, something is happening. I can help."

"'ow, Sam?"

"Um, Interpol?" he replied and she almost laughed, but tried to smooth it over and seem serious, disapproving, but the twinkle in her black eyes gave it away. "And they're my friends."

"And you 'aven't left the hospital for more than two 'ours yet," she replied. "You cannot go all the way to _Angleterre_ alone."

"Not alone," Sam said, shuddering at the possibility. Not alone. For a moment, he had to stop and breath deeply, reaching for Veronique's hand, which she held tightly, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, jaw set, teeth gritted, for the panic to recede. Maybe she was right.

He closed his eyes.

He had to start somewhere. Why not run before he could walk? What was the worst that could happen?

Oh, so many things. His imagination supplied them all, surprisingly quickly.

But was Moriarty forcing him into a prison, this hospital room, to shrink from everything outside that was even slightly unfamiliar?

Yves Bessette was from Lille, and Sam had never even been to Lille. Was he meant not to go to his adopted hometown? To spend the rest of his life in a small, safe area in Nice, when everything he'd ever known was in England? When he'd joined Interpol in part because it was international, to work places he would otherwise never go?

Besides, he had no friends anymore, except Veronique, because she was the only person he could tolerate. Sam thought he could have coped with Carolyn Edwards and some of the others he'd worked with at the Yard again, but he was dead to them, and couldn't go back. But he was not dead to John and Sherlock. He had that, at least. If nothing else. It often felt like nothing else, which was depressing.

His therapists were always impressing him with the need to learn to trust again. But he already trusted Sherlock, and, to a somewhat lesser extent, John, only because he didn't know him as well.

"Tell them I want to go visit two male friends," Sam had come up with. "That will get their attention."

He refused to talk to men for the most part, nor would he be in the same room as one he didn't know without Veronique or one of his favourite female nurses there. This was hard, because there had been a time when men and women had been equally attractive to him, but no one was now, although men so much less so.

He was right, though; it did get their attention.

So he found himself on an airplane from Nice to London, unexpectedly abuzz about the idea of going _home._ Gabriel had been born and raised in London, so going back as Sam had been a relief, a gift, a blessing. He'd had no idea how much he missed it until Veronique had told him that their superiors had agreed. Sam had no idea how many favours she'd called in for that, but a woman like Veronique was always owed favours. You'd promise her a favour for a smile, for an approving glance. He'd always wondered why she was his handler, instead of running the entire organization. She might have the chance now, since he was being removed from the field.

He wore colour contacts, turning his vivid green eyes a normal, forgettable brown. Right arm in a sling, because of the healing injuries, still, although he was to say he'd been in a car accident, should anyone ask. It would explain any other scars that were visible, too. But it was also February, so he could wear a heavy jacket to London, and a scarf, and gloves.

Cover up the imprints Moriarty had left. Be someone else. Be Yves, for a few hours.

For the very first time.

They had special security clearance as Interpol agents, on a private jet carrying a handful of other agents and personnel on their way to London for various reasons, but Veronique ensured they sat as far away as possible from the others, and that no one talked to Sam except the attendant. Whether or not she'd told them about what happened, he didn't care; he just needed the men on board that flight not to look at him, not to sweep his body with their eyes, even impersonally. Especially in a confined space, where he could not escape.

More than once, he wondered if he'd been mad to try this.

It was the longest two hours of his life.

Even longer, yes, than the time trapped in the room.

But the other agents kept their eyes from him other than to meet his, once, in greeting, and asked no questions. The sensation that everyone was watching him, that everyone _knew_ what had happened, each moment laid bare, warred against the training that told him quite clearly that no one was paying attention to him. It was disconcerting, and he was tempted to drink the offered alcohol, but Veronique wouldn't let him. No crutch, she'd told him, and it might interfere with his medication anyway.

Sam took a lot of medication, these days.

Landing at Gatwick actually made him dizzy, and he leaned forward, clasping his hands behind over the back of his neck, head between his knees. Veronique misinterpreted this and was concerned, but when Sam raised his head, he was smiling.

"No," he explained to her. "I'm _home._"

He hadn't felt this good in months.

Since October.

They should have let him recover in England. Every nerve resonated with the knowledge, the security, that he belonged there. Even here, where everything had gone wrong, where he'd been abducted and raped. It still mattered. But it was also still home.

He had forgotten what it was like, even for a fleeting moment, to feel _safe._ The sensation made him both want to laugh and throw up. He settled for taking a few deep breaths.

They waited until everyone had cleared the plane, then disembarked, Sam pausing to close his eyes and draw a deep, slow breath, breathing in the scents of England, of London, even though they weren't in the city proper, and Veronique pretending for his sake that she was glad to be there and that she did not instinctively want a cigarette.


	7. Chapter 7

(January 28th, 2013)

John had encouraged him to go to St. Bart's. Pestered him, really. Sherlock hadn't wanted to go anywhere; it was easier to stay in the flat, to keep an eye on things from above, to be somewhere where no one could approach him unannounced. The morgue at St. Bart's wasn't accessible to just anyone, of course, but the problem was, Mycroft wasn't just anyone. He came and went where he pleased. Why not there?

Sherlock had spent the weekend with John, and missed him now that it was Monday and he was denied the doctor's presence and the almost constant physical contact.

Not that he needed that, of course. He tolerated it for John's sake.

He was simply getting used to John being even more affectionate, that was all.

Yes.

That was all.

It did not have anything to do with the fact that he felt tight and jumpy when John wasn't around. Nothing to do with the fact that when John laced a hand into his hair, Sherlock could relax, feel safe, forget that Mycroft had broken the trust Sherlock had always so reluctantly extended to him. This might not be so bad, if Mycroft didn't also have an unnecessary amount of influence and reach.

It had nothing to do with missing the way John felt and smelled and sounded when he was leaning up against Sherlock, or holding him, or kissing him, or in bed with him. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that two of them against Mycroft were much more even odds, and Sherlock knew his brother knew precisely where both of them were and when they were not together.

No, this was just about John. He was only tolerating all of this for John's sake.

John was making it very difficult for him to concentrate.

He hadn't been this bad since they'd first gotten together and all he'd wanted to do was be at home, exploring John's body, learning the scale of small sounds that John made when touched in just the right places, and where those places were. Breathing in John's smell so he'd never forget it, never be unable to recall it at a moment's notice, making it part of himself. That had distracted him enough that Lestrade had threatened to kick him off of a case and Sherlock hadn't even cared, because it meant he could take John home and resume his experiments. John had made him stay on the case, but had also made sure to make it up to him, later.

_Focus_, he told himself. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, concentration refocusing on the task in front of him. Thankfully, his hands and part of his brain hadn't stopped working, and they'd done a good job, too. Sherlock raised his eyes quickly, but he was alone in the lab at the moment – Amanda was doing some work down the hall; he could hear her moving about every few minutes, and the sound was normal, reassuring.

He didn't need reassurance, of course. His brain was only registering it automatically.

Sherlock snarled to himself.

Why was he so _afraid_?

Yes, that's what it was, no use denying it, even if it was tempting, so tempting, to do so. It chased him around in circles, making his thoughts try and dodge, try to hide behind other things, which was where the distraction came in. He set down the equipment he was working with carefully and ran his hands through his hair.

_Stop doing this_, he said, either to himself or Mycroft, he wasn't sure. _Leave me alone. Why must you always be watching?_

He wondered if any of the security cameras in the morgue were trained on him and feeding the image back to Mycroft. He considered making a rude gesture to one, but that would be giving Mycroft the satisfaction of a reaction, and, on the off chance that Mycroft was not watching him – unlikely – then he'd probably just draw some unnecessary animosity from a security guard somewhere. Which might make Amanda lecture him about his habits. He was willing to wear a lab coat and pay for his own coffee when he was there, but he'd be damned if some mere girl was going to reprimand him about his behaviour.

_She's only about five years younger than you_, his mind supplied.

_Shut up,_ he told himself.

He went back to work. Amanda came in to the lab, fetched some equipment and left. He ignored her, pretending to be absorbed in his experiment.

He was going to have a long talk with himself at the end of the day. He needed to establish some new rules. All of this _feeling_ was uncalled for. It was inappropriate. It distracted him, which was not allowed, nor was it to be tolerated. If he couldn't get along with himself, he was going to have to impose some consequences. He could always ground the part of his brain that was doing this, not let it out to play until it promised to behave.

It wasn't even though he liked Mycroft very much, even before the incident at Tricia's.

_Yes, but you loved him_, his brain put in. _You still do._

He growled quietly. Really, he was going to have to learn to listen to himself. This was not suitable. He couldn't have his mind running about like this without his permission. This was only acceptable when it pertained to work, usually when he was on a case.

Or when it had something to do with making John happy.

_John_.

The beaker slipped from Sherlock's hand and clattered to the table, then tipped and smashed on the floor. He was up as the glass was shattering, stepping back and going instinctively the larger pieces, cursing silently, hoping Amanda wouldn't come in, but she did. Sherlock managed to cut himself on a shard of glass and winced, then wished he hadn't called attention to it, even with such a small gesture.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"It slipped," Sherlock replied, his voice calm. That, at least, was listening to his commands. "I'll pay for it, of course."

"Get away from it," Amanda ordered. "You've cut yourself."

Sherlock ignored that until she forcibly moved his hand and made quick work of binning the big pieces and sweeping up the smaller fragments and slivers. She had him stand with his right hand under the faucet while doing this, the blood from his palm mingling with the cold water, making pale red swirls in the drain. When she had cleaned up the mess to her satisfaction, she joined him, shutting off the tap and wrapping a towel around his hand.

"You all right?" she asked, looking up, meeting his eyes, expression concerned.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock replied evenly. "Although I will need some gauze."

"Are you sure?" Amanda pressed. Sherlock unwound the towel carefully; the wound wasn't deep or large, and the bleeding was already tapering off. It was in an inconvenient place, to be sure, but once he'd bandaged it and bound it, it would be fine.

"Yes, it doesn't require stitches," he said, an opinion born of certainty that came with being married to a doctor.

"That's not what I mean," Amanda replied. "I've never known you to drop or break anything, at least not without doing it deliberately."

"There is a first time for everything, as they say," he replied easily, twitching his eyebrows up. "Perhaps the lab is haunted. Poltergeist. Or perhaps even I have moments of clumsiness occasionally. Once a decade."

She raised her eyebrows back at him, but accepted his explanation, because he kept his expression level and open enough that she'd trust he was telling the truth. Not too open, or she'd realize he was lying to her. A delicate balance, but one that Sherlock was good at.

Except for with John.

Damn.

Not a flicker in his eyes or on his face.

She fetched the first aid kit and taped small cotton absorbent pad over the wound, then wound a strip of gauze expertly around his hand, running it under his thumb for good measure and stability as well.

"There you go," she said, patting the back of his hand once when she'd finished, then snapping the kit closed again. "Be careful."

"I've reached my limit for the next ten years," he assured her.

Amanda rolled her eyes at him, put the kit away, then went back to work. Sherlock waited until her footsteps had retreated down the hallway and he could hear her actually moving about, refocused on whatever she was doing in one of the cold storage rooms, before he sat down at one of the computer terminals, thumbing the screen on and staring at it blankly. At this angle, with the cameras, it looked as though he were actually reading something, and he adjusted the screen's angle somewhat so that it couldn't be zoomed in on by the camera.

John was the source of all of this.

Why hadn't he realized this sooner?

He'd thought it was Mycroft. It _was_ Mycroft.

It was what Mycroft could do to John.

Sherlock reminded his hands not to shake.

He'd threatened Tricia, who was Sherlock's friend. Sherlock cared for her, even though he'd never intended to before meeting her, but she was honest and intelligent and unintimidated by someone more intelligent than her, which was actually refreshing. And she loved John, really loved him, but was not a threat for his affection, both of which made Sherlock more kindly disposed towards her. He could tell she felt the same way, the older sister response in her (even though she was younger than John) evaluating Sherlock's feelings for John and approving of them. This strange man who'd managed to snag John's love, somehow.

Sherlock had thought the hit woman would go after John as her target, because John was his family, the only part of his family he cared enough for to be truly attached to. But they'd anticipated that and gone after someone else.

Because it had been a warning.

What happened if Mycroft decided not to issue any more warnings?

Sherlock had never been able to explain to John why Moriarty had gone after Sam and not John. In part because John hadn't asked – it wasn't precisely the kind of question one did ask, or at least, not the kind John would ask. "Why didn't that psychopath abduct me instead of Sam? I mean more to you."

Had he asked, Sherlock would have explained that was precisely the point. Sam was not John. Sherlock wouldn't have played the game if John had gone missing. Once, maybe, years ago. Now, he'd have laid waste to London if Moriarty had taken John, without care for the consequences, without thought to the game Moriarty wanted to play with him. It would have changed the rules so much there would have been no more rules.

Which wouldn't have been fun for James Moriarty. He wanted to pull all of the strings, but couldn't do that if Sherlock cut them all.

James Moriarty, who was a psychopath, not a sociopath, understood that about Sherlock.

Perversely, Sherlock's involvement with John had made John safer.

No more bombs strapped to him, no pistols aimed at his throat, no scars, no abuse.

Sherlock knew full well Moriarty had raped Sam. And Moriarty knew full well what Sherlock would have been capable of if he'd so much as laid a finger on John. It had been difficult enough to control reactions when he'd seen how Sam looked.

There were other factors, of course. Sam had escaped, even if it had only been fortuitously, but Moriarty had lost him for seven years. Interpol had removed him, covered him up, hidden him away, frustrated every attempt Moriarty had made to find him again. He was a pretty, shiny, forbidden thing. A thing.

That's how Moriarty assumed Sherlock saw Sam, too. As a toy, something interesting to play with for now, a prize in the game. Not as a friend, which was actually how Sherlock had seen him. Nor as an Interpol agent with an agenda of his own. And missing that had been the key mistake. To Moriarty, Sam was never a person. Sam was never a threat.

No good to underestimate the players in the game just because they weren't as smart as he was. James Moriarty insulated himself with his intelligence and his resources and hadn't stopped to consider that someone with more resources but less intelligence might have a fighting chance against him.

Because he saw people as things, which John had accused Sherlock of doing once, but Sherlock didn't, not always. Not Sam, not Tricia.

Not John.

He pulled out his phone and opened a text for John.

What to say?

Please tell me you're all right? That would worry him. Make him call and demand to know what was going on. Make Sherlock explain, which he didn't want to do, especially here.

I love you? It was true, but predictable, and again, John would probably call to find out what had prompted it. Sherlock could always counter with asking why he wasn't allowed to tell his husband he loved him without a specific reason, but John would see through that. John was getting far too good at reading him. Not that Sherlock wanted it any other way; he just didn't want John to know that.

He chewed on his lower lip, then stopped when he remembered there were cameras. He felt hunted, monitored. Like a subject in an experiment.

_My hands miss you_, he finally sent. Then he set the phone beside him and checked his email on the computer, then his website, vaguely, not really caring.

John replied a few minutes later.

_My tongue misses you._

Right, _now_ Sherlock was not going to get any work done and it really was John's fault. Not at all his, for starting this.

_Wear your good jeans tonight_, came a second text half a minute later. _I want to take them off._

Sherlock put his phone away quickly. He could almost hear John laughing on the other end, in his office.

_Focus! _he told himself. He forced himself back to work, ignoring the part of his brain that insisted on thinking about John's tongue on his skin, and somehow made it through the day. Amanda was a good distraction once in awhile, and he helped her move a body going for autopsy, delighted when she promised he could take the riding crop to it afterwards, and even more so when she suggested she may be able to get him a limb and time with the hospital incinerator, if he could get his hands on fire retardant chemicals.

He certainly could.

She left around four-thirty and Sherlock stayed on awhile, wanting to get done what he'd started earlier, which was taking longer than expected. Another tech came on and he greeted the younger man, who tolerated his presence but didn't really seem to care if Sherlock was there or not. No interest in the consulting detective, but the tech was dull as dishwater anyway and Sherlock preferred that he didn't speak to him.

He left around five, the sun having just sunk below the horizon fifteen to twenty minutes before. He walked up to the main entrance, to the cabstand, and just missed one, which was snagged by a young woman hurrying out of the hospital who really had cut in front of him. Sherlock sighed but hailed the next one, climbing in gratefully. He could go home now, and put on those jeans. So John could take them off. He played through a dozen different scenarios of how that could go, but John was good at surprising him and, in this, Sherlock did not mind being surprised.

"Two-twenty-one Baker Street, in Westminster," he instructed the cabbie, who nodded and pulled out into traffic.

After seventeen seconds, Sherlock could tell they weren't heading in the right direction.

"Did you not hear me?" he demanded.

"Heard you fine, Mister Holmes," the cabbie replied and Sherlock felt his blood run cold, an unpleasant sensation, the rational part of his mind analyzed. "But your brother wants to see you."

Sherlock reached for his phone instinctively, call John, call Geoff Lestrade, have them trace it.

"No, mate, don't bother. Jamming signal."

Sherlock froze in mid-action. He had no doubt that was true.

"Don't worry, he just wants to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to him," Sherlock replied, keeping his voice cool.

"Yes, well," the cabbie smiled in the rearview mirror, revealing perfect teeth. The dental plan for working for Mycroft must be good, Sherlock considered in the part of his brain that was still noting these things. "I don't work for you, mate, do I? Just sit tight, I'll have you there in no time. It isn't right when brothers fall out, you know. Terribly sad. And, if it helps, I don't think he wants you to do any of the talking. You can just sit back, and listen."


	8. Chapter 8

(January 28th, 2013)

There were some people who could close off their nostrils from the inside, to prevent them from smelling things they did not want to. It was a genetic variation, like the ability to curl one's tongue or move one's ears, but rarer. Sherlock had read of this, but never encountered anyone who could do it.

To his knowledge, there was no way to shut one's ears from the inside, although he wished there were, and he wished he was capable of doing so.

_Don't be baited_, he told himself.

He'd tried the door, of course, but the rear doors of the cab were child-locked, to keep him inside.

It seemed too fitting for how Mycroft saw him. As a child.

Would his own brother hurt him? Unlikely, given Mycroft's actions in the past, when no threat had ever been implied, let alone carried out, and the false cabbie's words. However, predicting Mycroft was always difficult – Sherlock would not have predicted, for instance, that he'd be involved of the deaths of two children. John had told Sherlock that Mycroft had denied responsibility for those, placing it on his superiors, but this did not change the facts.

He had been involved. That was one of the facts.

And now he'd resorted to abducting his own brother. Another fact.

_I want to go home,_ he thought dully. He recalled John's smell, the smell of sunshine, and the feeling of warmth. John wouldn't be bothered that he was late; he would chalk it up to Sherlock getting wrapped up in a project at the lab. Sherlock had never been very particular with schedules, so John wouldn't notice any deviations. How could there be deviations, when there was no pattern from which to deviate?

Perhaps John would try calling him, only to find the signal jammed.

But no, if his phone was out of service, it would go through to voicemail.

And John would think Sherlock was working.

Unless he tried to text, and got no reply, because Sherlock was better at texting than answering his phone when he was busy. But that was contingent on too many unknown variables. Especially if John thought he was working late.

_Don't think about John_, he told himself. Keep John out of this. Keep calm. Mycroft was his brother. He wouldn't hurt Sherlock.

He'd just hurt someone Sherlock knew.

No, don't think that way. Don't think at all. Breath and focus, don't let him bait you.

_You aren't twelve anymore, _he told himself. _He needs to learn that. So do you._

He wished his mind would shut up, for once. It was the first time he'd ever wanted that. Enough analyzing. Enough weighing the options, enough finding the patterns, enough being insightful. He felt like a one-person therapy session.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Ten counts on the inhale. Ten on the exhale. If he were at home, he could lie on the couch and press his palms together, fingertips touching his chin.

If he were at home, John would be there. He could lace his hand into Sherlock's hair on the back of his head and drain away the tension.

_Shut up_, he told himself firmly.

He knew where they were; he knew the city better than the cabbies who studied for years with their maps on their scooters. He knew the lights, the alleys, the signs, the roundabouts.

He could get home from here, although on foot it would take quite some time.

If he could get out of the car. Which he could not.

When the car stopped on an empty side street in an industrial area, near a shadowed building entrance, he considered smashing his window open and accessing the handle that way, but Mycroft slipped inside before it was possible. The car started up again, pulling into an empty parking lot. No cameras here – Sherlock could tell without really knowing. Otherwise, Mycroft wouldn't have chosen it. Or the cameras were turned away.

The driver got out, disappearing into the shadows between the pools of overhead lights. Their car was parked outside one of these circles of illumination, the orange lights from above touching the very edge of Mycroft's figure, as if dancing past it, reluctant to shed light on the brothers.

_I am not afraid of you_, Sherlock lied to himself. He wished it were true. That he could shut off his instincts the way some people shut off their nostrils.

So many things he wanted to shut down right now.

"I am sorry about this," Mycroft said.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the seat back in front of him.

"No," he said quietly. "No, you are not, Mycroft."

He hadn't meant to speak, but needed to say that. If he kept quiet, he was accepting the apology, or the statement of apology, which was not precisely the same thing.

"I am sorry that you're upset," Mycroft said.

Sherlock believed that, although he suspected it was because it was inconvenient for Mycroft to be here, and to have Sherlock displeased with him. That Sherlock wasn't just falling into line, accepting whatever explanations were offered. This had always been inconvenient for Mycroft.

He said nothing.

Mycroft waited a long moment, trying to draw out the silence, to make Sherlock fill up that silence when the discomfort became too much to let continue. It was a tactic Sherlock had employed against John once or twice. Now, he felt like a right bloody ass for having done that. It didn't work very well with John, either.

Sherlock stayed silent, staring at the seat in front of him.

"Mummy will be upset if we're on bad terms," Mycroft said, playing his usual card.

Their mother was a grown woman. She could learn to cope. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft would ever tell her what had really transpired. No, of course not. Who wants to know their son was involved in five murders? Not that she was a stupid woman; even not knowing precisely for whom Mycroft worked, she knew the nature of his job.

Like Sherlock, she'd assume that it wouldn't impact her.

Assumptions were lazy. Irresponsible. He should never have made them.

Mycroft gave a small sigh. Sherlock kept his eyes forward.

"Must you be like this?" he asked, as if Sherlock were having a temper tantrum over some trivial thing, like Mycroft getting more telly time when they were young, or being allowed to stay up until midnight on new year's eve when Sherlock was sent to bed. As if this was some petty dispute.

He tried to keep John firmly from his thoughts, but a little traitor's voice whispered _I love you_ at the back of his mind. As if he could reach out across the city and let John know that without words. But it did make him feel better, that tiny thought.

"Very well," Mycroft said, as if acquiescing to something. "Sherlock, be reasonable. You stumbled upon something that goes far beyond me, and I am sorry you got dragged into it."

"And instead of speaking to me, you sent a hit woman to threaten a friend to relay a message," Sherlock said flatly, not moving his eyes.

Mycroft gave another small sigh.

"No," he replied. "I wasn't involved in that."

"You're lying," Sherlock said plainly.

"Stop being petulant, Sherlock," Mycroft said wearily. "I am not lying."

"You always sigh precisely like that when you're lying to me, because you think it will make me believe you're annoyed because you want me to think I'm being childish, instead of being annoyed with me because I'm right."

Mycroft was silent for a moment.

"I did not have anything to do with John's friend being threatened."

He'd brought John into this. Sherlock refused to be baited.

"She is also my friend," he said levelly. "I believe you know that."

He saw Mycroft nod vaguely out of the corner of his eye.

"Had I known they were going to send _her_ to deal with Doctor Remsen, I would have stopped it, and contacted you myself. I thought I could still keep you out of it."

So he had known something. Mycroft caught the small glint of recognition in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock wondered how hard he'd have to hit the window to shatter it. Could he get enough leverage with a punch while sitting down? Unlikely.

"I had contact with the woman, yes," Mycroft said. "Her orders did not come from me. I simply relayed the directions I'd been given. Had it been my choice, I would have chosen different options."

Sherlock drew a deep and silent breath.

"Did you object?" he asked.

"It would have done no good," Mycroft replied.

"_Did you object, Mycroft?_"

"No. It was not my decision, Sherlock. It would have served no purpose. Events would still have unfolded the same way."

Sherlock turned his head now and stared at his brother, grey eyes cool, expression neutral, but all of this deliberate.

"You could still have refused or objected," he said softly. "It may not have changed anything, but you could have done so. Two children are dead and you did not think to protest this. You could have tried. But you did not."

Mycroft stared back at him, and there was a flash of something in his eyes, so hard to identify in the low lighting. Only a sliver of the orange parking lot security lights touched his face, casting his eyes and features into more shadows and angles.

Sherlock knew he'd read it properly, though. He'd hit on something Mycroft didn't want to think about. The infallible Mycroft Holmes, suspecting he may have been wrong? It seemed less likely to Sherlock than the possibility of he himself having doubts about his judgment, but there it was. A flash only, a bare instant, but still there.

He may truly not have had anything to do with Tricia, but what difference did it make? Did it absolve him with Sherlock if he was removed from the incident in Sherlock's own life? It did not change the involvement in the lives of five other families. Sherlock was not used to feeling this kind of empathy, but he clung to it tightly, because it gave him the reason he needed to be angry with his brother.

And because he could not imagine losing John and the devastation he would feel if the person he cared for most had been ripped from him in a senseless moment of violence. It was precisely this that had happened to these families. Including two completely uninvolved children. Potential was a terrible thing to waste, a true crime.

"Morality from you, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, and there was only the faintest of edges in his voice, one no one but Sherlock would pick up. Sherlock refused to rise to the temptation.

"I'd like to go home now," he said instead with a calmness he didn't feel. "I have nothing more to say, and nothing more to listen to."

For a moment, Mycroft seemed about to refuse him, but then he sighed as if put upon and nodded.

"Very well," he agreed in a tone that told Sherlock they were not finished yet, not by a long way. Sherlock privately disagreed; they'd been finished with this the moment he'd seen the image files from Sandford's hard drive.

_You've made your choice_, he thought. _It had nothing to do with me. For all your talk to John about being concerned about me, for all that you've always kept tabs on me, the real choice had nothing to do with me at all._

It may have been practical, which Sherlock understood, as a sociopath, but Mycroft had always tried to goad him into not being so cold, so clinical, so professional in his assessments.

Perhaps Mycroft should have been listening to himself.

Sherlock looked away again, at the back of the seat in front of him.

With another pointed sigh that missed its mark, Mycroft got out of the car and the driver returned. Sherlock said nothing the entire drive home.

* * *

John heard the door open and close when he was in the shower, over the sound of the running water, because he'd been half listening for it. He was somewhat surprised how late Sherlock was; it was just after eight now. In a way, this made John happy, because if Sherlock had been so caught up with work at the lab, it meant he was doing better. John hadn't called him, not wanting to disturb him. But he was looking forward to getting those jeans off Sherlock.

He'd fixed himself something to eat around six, then had a short nap, hoping for a fairly sleepless night. Mondays were always tedious, with patients who were panicked after a weekend of sniffles or who should genuinely have gone to a weekend clinic or to the emergency room for real illnesses. Mondays that followed on weekends spent entirely with Sherlock were even harder, because John's body always missed the contact, is if he were in withdrawal.

Describing Sherlock as a drug may have been fairly accurate, come to think of it.

At least Mondays were always full up, so John had no time to dwell on anything that he was missing out on or get lost in memories from the weekend.

He finished showering and hopped out, drying off and then pulling on a pair of light pyjama pants, opting to go shirtless, since it would help him get what he wanted. Not that Sherlock was going to offer up any complaints or resistance, but John didn't really want to wait long, either.

He padded out into the livingroom to find Sherlock sitting on the couch. Not laying down, as he normally did, but sitting, still fully dressed in his coat, scarves, gloves and shoes, hands resting on his thighs, staring straight ahead.

John circled around quickly and was taken aback by the expression on Sherlock's face. He was sheet white, but his eyes were blazing.

Being half dressed and hoping to get Sherlock into and then out of his jeans was immediately forgotten. John sat down quickly beside him and Sherlock's jaw tightened, recognition that John was there, but he didn't so much as move otherwise.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked, reaching out, then hesitating. Sherlock looked livid. No, murderous.

"Had a nice chat with my brother," the detective muttered, his voice tight.

Shock coursed down John's spine, ground him to the couch.

"Caught me coming off of work," Sherlock continued. "Dummy cab."

John passed a hand over his eyes, feeling rage replace the shock that had pinned him to his seat.

Mycroft had never actually resorted to kidnapping Sherlock before. John, yes, but not his own brother. The man was either desperate, or angry. Or both.

"What did he say?" John demanded.

"Nothing of consequence."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Wasn't his decision, he wasn't involved, et cetera," Sherlock replied and there was a sudden hint of weariness in his voice, one that John wasn't used to. It made a shock of anger ripple up his back, like heat.

"I'm going to bloody kill him," John muttered, shifting slightly.

Without looking, Sherlock moved his left arm, his hand wrapping around John's wrist.

"All things considered, John, I'd prefer if you stayed here right now," he said, eyes still focused ahead, still bright. Then he swallowed, taut muscles in his neck working, and John felt the minute tremble in Sherlock's hand against his wrist.

Some of the bright rage drained away, replaced instantly with concern for his husband. This was about what Sherlock needed right now, not what John wanted. Besides, where would he go? How would he go about finding Mycroft? And Sherlock didn't need someone else to leave him right now.

John took Sherlock's hand from his wrist gently, lacing their fingers together and weaving his other hand into the Sherlock's thick curls on the back of his head, stroking his scalp gently with his thumb. For a tense moment, Sherlock's expression didn't change, then he closed his eyes and dropped his head backwards, tilting it slightly to the left to move it into John's caress. John stayed that way for a several minutes, letting Sherlock relax enough that he didn't seem as though he'd snap if he moved. Sherlock's breathing slowed somewhat, and the muscles in his neck and jaw eased, his expression softening. John let go gently, removing Sherlock's scarf, coat, gloves and shoes as if he were a child coming in from being outside in the cold weather.

He took Sherlock's hands, tugging him up, and led him back to the bedroom. Sherlock followed quietly, almost docile, which told John how upset he really was, that he was willing to simply surrender to John's guidance.

John undressed his husband slowly, caressing Sherlock's bare skin the whole time as he went, making sure the movements were warm and not perfunctory, not medical. He lay Sherlock down, running his hands over the map of Sherlock's skin over and over, not demanding anything, just establishing contact. Bit by bit, Sherlock began to relax and John watched him, tracing the small changes in his face, in his eyes.

Then Sherlock raised his hands, running then up John's arm, raising small goosebumps as he did so, tracing his fingers up the side of John's neck and cupping his face.

"I don't want to sleep," he murmured.

John's lips twitched.

"When do you?" he replied.

"Fair question," Sherlock murmured, then pulled John into a soft, lingering kiss. John kept it light, their lips moving tenderly together, his hands still moving gently over Sherlock's bare skin, making the detective sigh softly into their kiss. Sherlock entangled one leg with John's and John felt desire stir and settle into his belly, but took his time. He had all night, and he had a lot of patience when he needed to, provided Sherlock could hold out, too.


	9. Chapter 9

(February 2nd, 2013)

It had been a bad week.

Certainly not the worst John had ever had. Had he made a list, he'd probably have found it went further down on that list than he was imagining at the moment, because there were a lot of other things that had been worse, being shot, being pensioned off from the army to recover, the crash last January, Harry at her worst, calling John at all hours to scream about Clara while John's world was a haze of morphine and pain.

Still, this was bad.

John wondered if he could have a week where someone else's damn problems didn't want to spill over into his life. At least Tricia and Henry were back home, with a new kitchen floor.

Yes, he told himself, focus on the good.

Little hard to do, now.

He'd taken Tuesday off of work and spent the day mostly in bed with Sherlock. While that had been enjoyable, because he always enjoyed sex with his husband, the reasons for having to take the day off had not. He'd been owed a personal day, since he hadn't needed to take one since October, and had covered some shifts around Christmas for the doctors with children, but he would have preferred to take one for lighter reasons. Not because he was afraid to leave his husband at home alone because his damn brother-in-law might take it in his head to come over, or snatch Sherlock from the streets if he went out.

They avoided this by not going out, but staying in bed all day except to shower – together, which turned into a longer shower than anticipated – and eat. Sherlock had even wanted to pass up Doctor Who in the evening to lie in bed with John, which was unprecedented. And somewhat worrying. John had solved this problem by relocating both of them to the couch as if they were one unit, entangled on the cushions, John mapping Sherlock's skin as the detective lay on him, hands curled against John's chest, dark curls tickling John's neck, eyes intent on the telly. John's legs had fallen asleep under Sherlock's weight, but he hadn't cared.

Wednesday, though, he'd had to go back to work, leaving a tense Sherlock at home. He'd come back as soon as he could that evening to find Sherlock still there, having managed to distract himself with some experiments about the flat, but John could tell his heart wasn't in it.

At least on Thursday, Amanda had rung over from St. Bart's to tell Sherlock she'd gotten him some time with the hospital's incinerator that day. Sherlock had considered not going, but John had asked if he was going to let Mycroft decide where he went and when. Sherlock hadn't wanted to take a cab, so John had pointed out to him that he could take the tube. This was more public, so even if Mycroft's people were following him around, at least there would be witnesses if anyone tried to get him into a car when he didn't want to go. Sherlock had arrived home before John had, and had been waiting for him, and had been on him the moment John walked through the door, as if to reassure himself that John was really still there. He hadn't even been given a chance to remove his coat.

Friday was more of the same, and John received a text from Sherlock once an hour, checking in. This made him feel better, too, just knowing Sherlock was still able to contact him. John had suggested going out for dinner that night, but Sherlock had refused, unwilling to get John get up off of the couch until John insisted they eat something, and even then, Sherlock stayed close to him in the kitchen.

It had been hard, when Sherlock had asked John quietly what to do.

Harder yet to answer that he didn't know.

And to watch Sherlock simply nod at this, as though it were the answer he'd been expecting. It probably was.

Again, as every day now, John wished a solution would present itself.

He stepped out of the cab that dropped him at home Saturday. It had been his weekend for the Saturday shift, even though he'd really wanted to get out of it, but none of the other doctors were available. And what to say to them? That his brother-in-law was a dangerous government agent who could not really be trusted? Yes, that would go over well and not at all make him look mad.

The cab pulled away and John turned to the flat, then swore loudly when another car drove by, splashing him. It had been raining all week and the streets were soaked and now John was, too. He wiped his face, glaring uselessly after the car, which didn't slow down or seem to have noticed him.

"Damn bloody damn," he muttered. Well, at least he was right outside his flat. He sighed, shaking his head, and looked back up the road. He caught the eye of a man across the street, standing under an awning, smoking a cigarette, the collar of his dark blue trench coat turned up against the rain. The man gave him a sympathetic look and a nod and John returned it with a put upon expression, then fished out his keys, turning back to the door.

Before he could open it, Sherlock pulled it open for him, standing in the dim light of the entrance. John started, having not even heard Sherlock come down the stairs, having been too distracted by being inundated by that damn car. John blinked, and Sherlock gestured at him impatiently. His husband's eyes slid past John's shoulder for a moment and John glanced back, following his gaze to the smoking man across the street. Was it the cigarette? No, Sherlock seemed to recognize him. John's blood went cold. One of Mycroft's people. But again, no, Sherlock didn't seem angry about his presence, and it would be brash, even for Mycroft, to station someone in plain view of the flat.

There was an unusual gleam in Sherlock's grey eyes.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Will you get inside? It's bloody miserable out here," Sherlock said, towing John in by the coat sleeve. He shut and locked the door and John gave him a puzzled look, evaluating him, feeling droplets of water drip uncomfortably down the back of his neck. He needed to get out of the soaking overcoat and shoes. But there were more pressing matters now.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Has something happened? Mycroft's not here, is he?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Not Mycroft. Sam's come for a visit."

For a moment, John didn't believe him, because it seemed absurd, unreal. But Sherlock's face was serious; this wasn't the consulting detective pulling his leg. John followed him quickly upstairs to the flat, still half disbelieving, where a young man was sitting on their couch with a mug of tea, which he raised in greeting. It took a moment for John to reconcile the image, this man had lighter, shorter hair and brown eyes – contact lenses – and looked several years older, although, all things considered, he did not look too bad. His right arm was in a sling, but that was all that was immediately evident. There would be a lot more, John knew as a doctor, even though it had been four months since The Bridge.

John thought of the man across the street, watching the flat, smoking a cigarette out of the rain. Not one of Mycroft's people. Not watching the flat because of them.

And suddenly, a solution presented itself.

* * *

(February 2nd, 2013)

There were people in the flat.

The fact that no one should have been there was worrying, but less so than the fact that it taken him twelve seconds to note their presence. Upon entering, everything had seemed, felt, and sounded normal. No extra noise, but no lack of noise. No lights on when they shouldn't be. The door had been locked, properly, the lock had not hesitated with his key, so hadn't been forced. No unusual smells, which was extremely disquieting, because that meant whoever was there had been there long enough for their scents to dissipate, to take on the overtones of the flat, and it also meant they knew how to disguise themselves.

If anyone were there, it should have been Anthea, but she wouldn't be lying in wait in the darkness; she'd be moving about the flat with the lights on, probably glued to her mobile as always, but would have acknowledged him when he entered.

Mycroft wondered what had alerted him. He took a deep, silent breath. Ah, so there was some subtle different scent, barely noticeable. His mind had identified it without him being consciously aware of it. There was also some sixth sense that told him he simply wasn't alone.

He wondered who it was; not Sherlock, because his brother was not going to show up, and wouldn't make a show of waiting for him if he did. Not John, who may actually have been on the verge of shooting Mycroft after Monday, but would restrain himself by not confronting Sherlock's brother, if only for Sherlock's sake. Predictable. What about that army friend of John's, the doctor? No, she wouldn't know where to find him. Nor was Mycroft certain her loyalty extended to shooting people for John, if only because it may land her in prison.

Certainly not one of his superiors, who would not bother with the cloak and dagger. Enemies? It was the only option. But so many from which to choose. And which ones could manage this?

He felt oddly exhilarated, with only the faintest twinges of nervousness. He hadn't gotten to where he was by feeling nervous. The situation could be managed; they always could be, if one was skilled enough and patient enough. Even the current situation with his brother. There were ways.

Very quickly, he considered his options. He could leave, walk back out the door, but that wasn't ideal, because whoever was inside could simply wait. Not that Mycroft didn't have other flats and a house to go to, but this was an unacceptable invasion of his privacy. He could draw his gun, but had no idea how many there were, and a weapon may be an incitement to violence. He could wait at the door, for them to come to him. He could turn on the lights and startled them; his eyes would not be adjusted either, but whoever was waiting for him would have no warning. Unfortunately, he had no good sense of _where_ in the flat they were waiting; if not in the living room, then they would have enough time to adjust to any sudden light.

"Or you could just come in here," a younger male voice said.

Fascinating. How had they traced his line of thought? This suggested someone with strong reasoning skills and experience dealing with people like Mycroft. Someone else who moved in the shadows? This was intriguing, despite the fact that he was annoyed that someone had made it past his defences.

So there was at least one man. Could be two, the speaker and a thug? Providing some back up muscle for the one who had spoken to him, maybe. Difficult to tell. Unless the one doing the speaking was not in charge. Also difficult to tell.

He went to find out.

They were in the livingroom, silhouetted in the faint light from the windows with its light blinds that kept out the worst of the city's refraction, but not all of it. Mycroft preferred it that way. He didn't want to shut out the city. He didn't understand why anyone would.

One man, sitting in an armchair, hands hanging over the arms, loosely. The owner of the voice. His features were lost to shadows, deeper where his eyes were and along the edge of his nose, but altogether indistinguishable. Average height, though, and his hair wasn't long; the shadows were wrong for that. The way he held himself suggested an injury to his right arm or shoulder, more likely to both.

And a woman, perched on the arm of the couch, facing away from the window, equally in the dark, but her colouring was naturally dark, Mycroft could tell. Precisely the kind of woman who moved in the shadows. Or, in her case, didn't move at all. She was still, not tense, just in perfect control, predatory, and didn't react to him, as if he were not worth it.

This irritated him suddenly and he smoothed if over, but wouldn't have been at all surprised if she'd noticed it, even in the darkness.

Mycroft set his umbrella to lean against the wall, then shed his coat, draping it over the back of the couch. The woman didn't move to follow his action.

So he was dealing with people like him.

But who? Intriguing question. No accent in the man's voice, so he was English, at least, but Mycroft's instincts told him the woman wasn't. All manner of agencies ran through his head; they may even work for the same people.

Unlikely, but possible.

He sat down across from the man. Judging who was in charge here was dicey. Neither of them seemed to be, but nor did they seem not to be. An equal partnership? Such a thing didn't exist, not in his world. Nor theirs.

"Who are you?" he asked plainly.

"My name is Sam Waters," the man replied.

This, yes, this startled Mycroft, only for a fraction of a moment, but enough.

Interpol. That did explain some things. A great deal, in fact.

"I was under the impression you died," Mycroft noted lightly.

"I did," Sam agreed.

"You seem to be doing quite well, for a dead man."

"I have my days," the younger man replied. Mycroft heard a wry hint in his voice, just below the surface. Something he couldn't keep out, then. Trauma? Physical or emotional? Both, likely. Mycroft knew what had happened, up until Waters' supposed death.

"Commendable job, finding this place and accessing it without my knowledge." Credit should be given where due. No one had managed that before, although people – many people – had tried. He wondered why he didn't feel at all intimidated, although it wasn't a sensation he was intimate with. This was interesting. Interpol was often out of his reach, and he hadn't known the young constable was an agent until after his apparent death. Such power available to them. Fascinating, really.

Sam only gave a nod.

"I suppose you're here to intimidate me, or some such thing?"

"No," Sam said and Mycroft arched an eyebrow, despite the darkness. "We could sit here, posturing to each other like typical men, all bluster and hot air, trying to outdo each other with whose agency is better, but I don't really want to stay all night, frankly. And, ultimately, I've read your Interpol file and you've never been able to access mine."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied. This was true, although irksome. He disliked it when he had limits. But there were ways around these limits. Everyone had a price, and every system had a weak point. And now, with Waters, he knew there was something more to look for. He had yet to decide if it was relevant.

"Then what?" Mycroft enquired, genuinely intrigued. It was interesting, talking to a dead man who was actually breathing and moving about. Or at least sitting in Mycroft's own flat, in his chair.

"Just to alert you."

"Alert me of what, constable?"

"Agent."

"Pardon?"

"Agent. Not constable."

Something clicked in Mycroft's mind. That was true. He'd never actually thought about it beyond the abstract, because Sam Waters had lived and died as a London Metro police constable. Even when it came out after his death that he was an Interpol agent, Mycroft had not given him any real thought. Why bother? He'd been dead.

He was displeased to be reminded that this man, this boy, really, at least fifteen years his junior, had more power than Mycroft would like to ascribe to him. Agent Waters, not Constable Waters. And probably not even Waters, he mused.

He distinctly disliked not knowing with whom he was dealing.

"That we're keeping an eye on things here," Sam replied, voice level and without real inflection that Mycroft could have used to determine his emotional state. So well trained. He was impressed, but kept that to himself.

This would have been almost fun, had it not been tiresome. It wasn't often he went up against agents from other agencies who didn't want something from him, information or access to people. Which was essentially the same thing, he supposed.

"If you expect gratitude from Sherlock, you won't get it," Mycroft commented. "He does become ill-tempered about this sort of thing."

"Not Sherlock," Sam replied.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow again.

"Are you threatening me?" he asked, keeping his amusement to himself. This was startlingly fun – people tried to threaten him all of the time, but never had the resources to properly do so. He suspected that if they were to shoot him right now, it would never get pinned on them. Of course, he may be able to get one of them first, and he was not convinced either of them were even carrying weapons. Waters was right handed and his right arm was injured. But the woman who wasn't moving, she may be armed. He changed his opinion then – she was armed, even if Waters wasn't.

"No," Sam replied. "Not much point, really. I doubt you've ever felt a moment's fear that you can remember, and have never consented to feel threatened. I'm just telling you."

"Why?" Mycroft enquired simply.

"So that you are careful," Sam replied.

"And I suppose it will be you who's watching me?"

Sam barked a single laugh, as if this both startled and amused him highly.

"No, Mister Holmes," he said. "Haven't you heard? I'm dead."

He rose, and the woman rose at precisely the same moment, not a fraction of a second before or afterwards. At this, Mycroft did narrow his eyes. How long had they worked together? Too long, he judged. And probably not much longer, given these indications.

"I shall keep an eye out," he promised.

"Do," Sam said. They moved toward the archway leading to the hall, the woman stepping in front, then Sam turned back, his movements clear but everything else still shrouded in shadows. "May I make a suggestion?"

"Please do."

"Find a way to make amends. Although I'm certain you don't and won't ever feel frightened, I'm more certain that you could very well be lonely. From personal experience, I can assure you it's not worth it. Good-_bye_, Mister Holmes."

And they were gone.

* * *

(February 9th, 2013)

John slept in, and it was glorious. He woke sometime just after ten, lying in bed and feeling warm and comfortable, sleep fading behind him, a pleasant memory. The bed beside him was cold now, of course, but hadn't been undisturbed; Sherlock had come to bed after him and gotten up before him, and was now moving about the flat, hopefully not causing any small catastrophes, listening to his own music.

John buried a face in his pillow, grinning.

It had been a good week.

Whatever had happened, it had worked. Mycroft had let them alone, and his people whom Sherlock recognized had not been around. John knew it wouldn't last, not forever, not with Mycroft, but it gave them room to breathe for now, and perhaps would give Sherlock the space to forgive his brother. John wasn't sure about that – he knew Sherlock should, for his own peace of mind, and he knew how hard it was to actually cut ties with family. Like it or not – and right now, he did not – Sherlock and Mycroft were brothers, and cut from the same cloth, at least in terms of intelligence and abilities.

John hauled himself out bed.

The space in which to breathe was welcome. He felt lighter than he had done in awhile, was sleeping better, and even Sherlock was easier with his smiles.

This hadn't changed his taste in music, though.

"Would you turn that off?" John asked, coming out of the bedroom, heading for Sherlock's iPod dock. Something John didn't know was blaring from the small speakers. It sounded vaguely Eastern European or Middle Eastern, John couldn't really tell. Sherlock jumped up, trying to intercept John but the doctor got there first.

"I was listening to that," Sherlock complained.

"Listen to it on your own time," John replied.

"This is my own time," Sherlock pointed out.

"No," John said, kissing him good morning. "It's our time." He glanced down at the coffee table, which was covered in both of their laptops, open maps, brochures, John's passport and Sherlock's passport.

Sherlock's passports?

John picked them up. There was his UK one, which was actually his, and one other.

"I didn't know you were a dual citizen?" John asked, hoping it was this, holding up the Canadian passport. Had one of his parents been born in Canada, maybe during the war? That wasn't uncommon, but he didn't know how the laws worked regarding that.

He flipped it open. It was Sherlock's picture and right name and right birthday and right birthplace. But Canadian. The issuing country was England, however, which John had seen on foreign passports obtained from embassies in England.

"I'm not," Sherlock said.

"So this is…"

"Mine."

"Uh huh," John said, putting it down carefully, wishing his fingerprints weren't on it.

"Oh, don't fuss," Sherlock said. "It makes it easier to travel in North America. And to Cuba."

"Right. I don't want to know. What are you doing?"

"Planning a trip."

Sherlock planted himself down on the couch again, in front of his laptop.

"Sorry? I thought I heard you say you were planning a trip?"

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing, John."

"Yes, but there may be something wrong with my mind."

Sherlock looked up and leaned over to kiss him.

"No, nor that."

"Sherlock, you're planning something? Since when have you ever planned _anything_?"

Sherlock gave him a hurt look.

"I've planned many things, John."

"Such as what?"

"Such as how I was going to wake you up, which I must point out, you've completely ruined."

John reached for a brochure for Ireland. When had Sherlock gotten these anyway? And where?

"Why are you planning a trip?"

"It occurred to me earlier this week that we never had a honeymoon."

John leaned back, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Isn't that what people traditionally do after they get married? Go on a honeymoon?" Sherlock asked.

"Traditionally, yes. Since when are you Mister Traditional?"

"Given that most people go on a honeymoon immediately following their wedding, this falls outside the boundaries of actually traditional. However, I thought it might be enjoyable. You haven't travelled extensively, given your passport and your customs records from England. Although you may have travelled within Europe, although your photos stored on your phone and computer suggest not."

John nodded. Between medical school, the army, and being deployed to Afghanistan, he had not had much chance to travel for leisure. He didn't ask how Sherlock had accessed his incoming and outgoing British customs records.

"So where are we going?" John enquired.

Sherlock shrugged lightly, grey eyes twinkling.

"I thought we could decide that together," he replied.

(**End**)


End file.
